A Game of Thorns
by WinterFyre-11
Summary: Starkhaven exile-turned-Grey Warden Winter MacEwan uses the blight to help her forget her painful past. From darkspawn to witches to dragons to old gods, Winter faces seemingly impossible challenges. When she finally finds love, it is at the most perilous time of her life. If they survive, no one will emerge unscathed.
1. Where Do I Begin

**A GAME OF THORNS**

CHAPTER 1 – Where Do I Begin? (Revised)

No seer could have foretold the events of the past two years. Or more to the point, that I would be at the center of so many of them, and a major player in all of them. People call me a hero. They see me as a leader, second only to the ruler of the land. They see the final outcome of things, but they can't see the person beneath the façade. My mistakes, my countless lapses in judgment, my impulsiveness… the secret failures that will escort me to my grave while the crowd cheers and throws roses at my feet.

Because of my past, I scorned a good man without cause. I mistrusted another who helped me and gave me purpose. In my naïveté, I trusted people who schemed against me. At my most vulnerable, I loved recklessly.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning, and you, dear reader, can judge me for yourself.

* * *

Chapter 1, Part 1 - Be Vewy Vewy Quiet. We're Hunting Wabbits.

Rabbits were plentiful in the wooded hills southeast of Lake Calenhad. It was King Cailan's favorite hunting ground, not only for the abundance of game but also because it was days away from Denerim and duty. These trips afforded him the freedom he'd missed since he took the throne. Too, they gave him the opportunity to spend time with his uncle, Teagan Guerrin.

Teagan and his elder brother Eamon had a hand in raising Cailan. Their sister, Queen Rowan, died when Cailan was a young child. King Maric loved his son and spent as much time with the boy as his duties permitted, but there was never time enough. He tried to make up for his absences with extravagant gifts and lax discipline. I t was only with Eamon's firm hand and Teagan's quiet wisdom that Cailan grew to be a reasonably responsible young man.

During the time Cailan spent in Redcliffe, Teagan taught the boy how to hunt. Cailan was a skilled bowman by the time he was twelve years old. As an adult, he was one of the best archers in Ferelden. He took pride in showing off his proficiency. When a plump hare peeked out from a thicket, Cailan's readied arrow skewered it and pinned it to a tree. It was a perfect headshot.

"The pupil has outdone the master," Teagan joked. He was as devoted to his nephew as any father to his son.

Cailan beamed with partly feigned arrogance. "You're just getting old," he replied. "A child could have made that shot. Cailan loved and respected Eamon, and he relied on the elder Guerrin in political matters, but he considered Teagan his closest friend.

"A child _did_ make that shot," Teagan rejoined. They continued the hunt while a manservant retrieved the king's arrow and the rabbit. He tucked the rabbit into a sack and wiped the arrow clean on his sleeve before returning it to its quiver.

They had left their horses at the edge of the forest and set off on foot with the manservant and a half dozen of the king's guards accompanying them. The guards kept a discreet distance between the hunters and themselves, just enough to give the king a bit of privacy and to keep the area quiet so the two nobles could track game.

Teagan noted his nephew was unusually subdued. If one didn't know Cailan as well as he did, they wouldn't have detected it. To Teagan it was as obvious as a beacon. He initiated conversation, general topics, to draw his companion out. I f the king was unhappy, before long he would spill it to Teagan and the two could talk it over. It was never his aim to pry into Cailan's business, only to give him a sympathetic ear and, if warranted, sound advice.

"How is your lovely queen these days?" Teagan knew he'd hit a sore spot when his nephew frowned and looked away.

"Anora is as radiant as ever," Cailan answered with a hard edge to his tone. "A prize to be mounted and displayed like an elk. The perfect mate, one would think, if any man could be content with a semblance of a wife."

"I'm sorry," Teagan remarked, trying to back off the topic. But Cailan wanted to talk.

"I loved her," Cailan lamented. "And I thought she loved me. Truth be told, I doubt she ever had feelings for me. If she performed her wifely duties with half the zeal that she displays when she presides over the court, everything would be well. But Anora is cold. She has a crown and a throne and all that I've given her, and she's content to bask in her power with no regard for my needs. If she were ever to give me an heir, I suspect she would refuse to lie with me again." He paused for a breath and concluded, "I don't believe I will care when that day comes. The sooner the better, I say."

"Surely you don't mean that," Teagan scolded.

"It's exactly what I mean," Cailan responded grimly. "This has gone on for five years. Isn't that long enough? I'm not a cruel man, Uncle, but I could send her back to Gwaren tomorrow. Marrying Anora gained no political advantage for Ferelden. It was simply my father repaying a debt he felt he owed Loghain. As if giving him a title wasn't enough." He paused, waited for Teagan to voice disapproval, and at his uncle's silence he came round to his point. "Uncle Eamon was right when he said I would have done better to wed the empress of Orlais. At least my country would have a strong ally instead of a barren figurehead as her queen."

"Eamon said that, did he?" Teagan mused. It was an uncharacteristically reckless comment for Eamon to make, but the damage had been done. He couldn't honestly disagree with the political aspect of it, but from a moral standpoint it abraded Teagan's sense of loyalty.

Cailan went on, "He's also concerned that Anora hasn't conceived, and she's now thirty years old. If she's incapable of giving me an heir, then she's truly of no use to me." He confided in a lower tone, "I've told no one of this, Uncle, but I've spoken with Empress Celene. She is not opposed to a union. In fact, she favors it."

"You've met with her?" his uncle queried. Each bit of news Cailan dropped was more unsettling than the one before.

"I have," Cailan admitted. "She is…stunning." Noting Teagan's shocked expression, he added quickly, "I met her once, briefly, in my travels. We communicate by letter." If his straight-laced uncle knew the whole truth—that he had bedded the hot-blooded Orlesian empress, and that they'd already made plans to wed as soon as Cailan could divorce Anora—whatever support Cailan might have gotten from Teagan would be lost in his disapproval.

Teagan groaned inwardly at Cailan's impulsiveness. "Have a care, Your Majesty, that no one gets their hands on your letters."

"Well, I know I'm in trouble when you address me by my title in private conversation," Cailan grinned, dismissing the subject before he revealed anything else. "Don't mind me, Uncle Teagan. I'm out of sorts today," he finished. " All will be well. Let's get back to the hunt, shall we?"

In light of these disturbing revelations, the rumors of Cailan's philandering gained credibility. The king was said to have had numerous trysts since his marriage to Anora. He was undeniably Maric's son in that respect.

Teagan wasn't as prudish as Cailan believed. He wasn't pure by any means, but he didn't go about bedding every woman who pursued him because of his rank as bann or his Guerrin lineage. He'd been raised to be a gentleman with the manners of a knight, but without the religious restrictions of a templar. He was single only because—as cliché as it seemed—he hadn't found the right woman. Eamon married late in life and was happy; Cailan married young and was miserable. Teagan wasn't in a hurry to tie himself to anyone. He believed, he _hoped_, his patience would someday be rewarded.

Cailan, however, was prone to act rashly. No one could fault him for wanting to be loved by his wife, as was every husband's right. But he wasn't just a common man. He was the king, and the populace scrutinized his actions. Teagan and Eamon had spent years trying to instill in their nephew the importance of being a good moral leader as well as a strong military one. Some of the lessons evidently fell by the wayside.

"Have you considered how Loghain would react to your notion of divorcing Anora? Worse yet, to replace her with Empress Celene?" Teagan asked. "It hasn't been so long since he shed his blood to free Ferelden from the Orlesians, Cailan."

Cailan pondered the question before responding quietly, "Because of his friendship with Father and Mother, I think Loghain would take it as a personal affront if I divorce Anora. If I marry Celene, Loghain and Anora will gather their supporters and start a rebellion against me. Even though the marriage would benefit Ferelden more than any other alliance I could make, they would fight it."

The conversation ended on that somber note. The men walked on as if continuing their hunt but neither cared for sport any longer. Though Teagan was concerned for his nephew, he dared not advise Cailan on his marriage like Eamon had done. He kept his opinion to himself but it burned in his gut like coals. Cailan risked tearing Ferelden apart—not by divorcing Anora if she was barren, but by marrying the empress. Loghain was highly respected throughout the land and he had many powerful supporters. If he turned them against Cailan, there would be civil war. The king was playing a dangerous game.

The sound of hoof beats broke the uncomfortable silence. A messenger came galloping into the group, reining his horse so hard it nearly threw him before he could get it under control.

"Calm yourself, man. What is it?" Cailan asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Much worse, Your Majesty," the man said. "Darkspawn, Sire, in the Korkari Wilds. A band of Grey Wardens spotted and killed them, and one of the wardens sent me to find the king. A fellow named Duncan. He said to tell Your Majesty he sensed more darkspawn about. Lots more."

"In the Wilds?" Cailan echoed, unshaken by the news. "It's been centuries since the last reports of darkspawn amassing. Could this be the start of another blight?" His marital problems forgotten, the king's eyes shone with excitement like those of a child receiving a coveted gift. "Imagine it, Uncle! A blight! And I'll be the king who will put and end to it, with the aid of the Grey Wardens. The battle will be glorious! Don't you agree?"

"I might not use the word 'glorious' to describe it," Teagan replied. He hoped the messenger and the wardens were mistaken. Few had seen darkspawn since the last blight four hundred years earlier. The beasts still inhabited the Deep Roads in Orzammar but they rarely showed themselves on the surface. If the report were true, it was a direful sign.

Legend had it that Grey Wardens could sense darkspawn, and the beings were somehow drawn to the wardens. After the wardens' exile and subsequent return to Ferelden under Maric's rule, the king granted the Grey Wardens permission to use the old fortress of Ostagar on the edge of the Korkari Wilds as their headquarters. If anyone knew darkspawn, it was Duncan, the senior Grey Warden and unofficial warden-commander of Ferelden.

"I'm going to Ostagar to meet with Duncan," Cailan announced, voicing Teagan's thoughts. He instructed the messenger, "Get a fresh horse from my guard and bring word to Teyrn Loghain to gather the armies and meet me there." The messenger followed the guard, and Cailan turned to Teagan. "If this is a blight, I intend to put it down before they advance further into Ferelden."

"Would you have me bring word to Eamon to summon his army and join you at Ostagar, Your Majesty?" Teagan asked, assuming his formal manner.

"No need," Cailan answered. "Between my men, Loghain's army, and the Grey Wardens, I'll overpower those monsters and make them wish they'd stayed underground." He strode off toward the edge of the forest and the tethered horses, calling over his shoulder, "I must be off, Uncle. We'll talk again after the battle."

"Maker be with you," Teagan responded absently, making his way toward his horse. He mounted up and turned toward Redcliffe Castle. He had a few things to say to his brother.

* * *

Part 2 – O Brother, What Were You Thinking?

"Did you truly tell Cailan he should marry the empress of Orlais?" Teagan asked Eamon.

"Not in those words," Eamon replied. "What's all the fuss about? It was an offhand remark, and it wasn't like I was telling him to divorce Anora and go propose to the empress." _Not at the time_, Eamon thought. _Things are different now._

"May I ask what you _did_ tell him?"

Eamon regarded his brother curiously. "What is this? I made a comment years ago about Cailan's political alignments. Why would it upset you?"

"Cailan would have me believe you told him he would be better off married to the empress."

"Yes, it's what I said. What of it?"

"What in the Maker's name were you thinking?" Teagan demanded.

"I don't care for your tone, Teagan," the arl snapped. "As I said, I made a casual remark to Cailan after he married Anora. The marriage might have made their fathers happy, and it elevated a glorified farmer's daughter to the throne, but it did nothing for Ferelden. I pointed out that a political marriage with the empress would have been more advantageous."

The elder Guerrin's explanation left Teagan nonplussed. "You… you said that to him years ago?"

"Yes, I told him right after his wedding, to be exact," Eamon confirmed. "I wanted to tell him _before_ he married the girl, but I couldn't get in to see him. Are you telling me he remembers it now?" Eamon chuckled, "After all these years, he finally decided to obey an elder?" Teagan didn't find anything about the situation amusing.

"The boy has taken it into his head you're encouraging him to pursue a marriage with the empress. He believes he will have your blessing when he brings his divorce petition before the landsmeet."

Eamon was about to comment when the impact of his brother's words hit him. He'd written Cailan about Anora's apparent barrenness and the problem it presented for the Theirin lineage. He proposed to consult with his nephew on his next visit to Denerim, but he hadn't spoken to Teagan about the issue. What surprised him most was that Cailan had revealed so much to Teagan. At last he said, "Please tell me you're having me on." He shook his head. "I hope he hasn't done anything disgraceful. Surely Cailan isn't that foolhardy."

"It could be he's more manipulative than foolhardy," Teagan said.

"If so, he's more like Maric than I imagined."

"Indeed. I thought we were done cleaning up after Theirin indiscretions."

Eamon asked Teagan to tell him exactly what was going on with Cailan. Teagan told him everything except the part about contacting the empress. Since his nephew had confided the information to him, he wouldn't betray his trust.

"Maker," Eamon sighed at length. "Well, I've always found Anora to be the devious sort. To be perfectly honest, I never cared for the girl. Not a drop of noble blood in her."

"Nonetheless, perhaps you'll be able to talk some sense into our young king when he returns from his war."

"I have a meeting scheduled with him," Eamon said, omitting that he intended to reinforce what he'd said in his letters to Cailan—that he should end his marriage to Anora without delay. "I only hope I can shake off this lethargy before I have to travel all the way to Denerim."

Now that he'd called attention to it, Eamon did look ashen. It was cool in the castle but the arl mopped perspiration from his brow as if he'd been doing hard physical labor. "Feeling under the weather, Brother?" Teagan inquired.

"More like under a rock," Eamon jested, but without much humor. "I awoke yesterday morning feeling fine. Around mid-morning, I began experiencing fatigue. It worsened since then, to the point where I can hardly stand for more than a few minutes. Then headaches and dizziness set in, so I assumed it was some type of fever. You know, nothing to be concerned about. This morning it was worse still. I have difficulty staying awake. I asked Isolde to send for a healer, but she insisted on going herself."

"I'll stay with you until she returns," Teagan said, hiding his worry as best he could. "I can keep you company, talk your ear off if you like. If nothing else, I can keep Connor out of your hair so you can rest."

Eamon opened his mouth to tell Teagan he needn't worry himself, that Isolde would be home any minute, but he couldn't form the words. All that came out was a long, wheezing groan as an icy dark fog engulfed him. His eyes rolled up to whites and he slumped to the floor, as pale and still as death.

* * *

Part 3 – Bad Moon Rising

From his vantage point at Ostagar, Duncan gazed over the land. The nightmares had returned with renewed strength and frequency, and he knew his time was short. The taint he'd taken into his body at his joining was killing him. A slow death, thirty years to accomplish, but as undeniable as it was predictable.

His blood ran painfully hot in his veins, indicating darkspawn in large numbers. More ominously, this kind of burning was confirmation of an archdemon's presence. They would soon face a blight, as bad or worse than the one that almost wiped out every living creature four hundred years earlier. And they weren't prepared for it.

The Grey Wardens, and mankind in general, had grown complacent since the last blight. Only the wardens knew it would happen again, but as the decades turned to centuries, they had allowed their numbers to dwindle to a handful of Grey Wardens in Ferelden. In the past year, Duncan had recruited only two new members for his order. The most recent, and most promising in quite some time, was a templar he'd conscripted from the chantry. That had been six months ago.

The archdemon waited for this exact time, when Ferelden's defenses were at their lowest. Duncan had foolishly miscalculated the beast's cunning. Now the wardens were few in number—two dozen at most in the whole country—and the beast was ready to attack. The fate of mankind was in the balance, and Duncan wasn't sure they would come out victoriously.

He left Ostagar and began a circuit through Ferelden to recruit or conscript as many fighters as he could, planning to return with at least twenty new potential wardens. He traveled alone, with nothing more than his weapons and a small pouch of provisions, to complete his journey as quickly as possible. He ate and slept only as much as was required to keep up his strength, and he pushed on, oftentimes on sheer determination. He couldn't allow anything to hinder him from his mission to bolster the Grey Warden's numbers before the war started.

Because he knew for a certainty he would not live to see the war's end.

* * *

Chapter 1A - Let Me Introduce Myself

Part 1 – Boulevard of Broken Dreams

To me, there was no place on the planet as beautiful as Starkhaven. Lush and green, nestled between gentle hills and a sparkling river—it seemed the Maker Himself graced our land with unparalleled serenity. Her people were hospitable and kind, and sometimes a bit rowdy, but such was the nature of our blood.

Like my parents, and their parents before them, I was born and raised in our family mansion near the royal palace. We were linked to the ruling prince both by blood and by marriage, and ours was a life of prestige and privilege. Father was Prince Vael's second cousin, and Mother was Princess Vael's stepsister. Because of our relationship, we were referred to as "minor royalty"—not as high as the ruling family, but set apart from other nobles. Thus my family, the MacEwan clan, was well known, and my father widely respected.

While the Vaels' sons were young, Father occupied the role of captain of the prince's armies. In due time, the prince's second son would assume that position, as was his birthright. The role was an easy assignment in our day. There were no wars, no aggressors, not a challenge to our borders. But peace suited us fine.

One who wasn't so enthralled with this idyllic existence was Sebastian Vael, the youngest son. In short, he was bored. Bored with peace, with rules, with the pomp that accompanied him at every step. He was handsome, rakish, and rebellious. By age twenty he'd earned a reputation as a philandering scoundrel, and he went out of his way to cause his father embarrassment. The instances in which the palace guards had to drag him, drunk and fighting, from local taverns, were happening with increasing frequency. The tavern wenches who claimed Sebastian was the father of their infants were numerous—too numerous to be believed. None of that mattered to me, though. I was in love with him. Even so, I hid my feelings because I wasn't the kind of woman with whom Sebastian kept company. I was too… tame. And decidedly too moral.

The prince could see Sebastian wasn't fit for leadership in any capacity. He wasn't adept at melee combat, preferring the bow to a sword. He excelled in archery so much that none in the land could match him, but the prince wanted all his sons to have _some_ proficiency with blades. As was his habit, Sebastian skipped his lessons and went drinking instead. And as usual, the guards were called to haul him back home.

At last Prince Vael had had enough with his stubborn son. Sebastian was too impulsive for his own good, so the prince opted to send him off to the chantry to serve the Maker rather than Starkhaven. With the lad safely promised to the chantry, it would prevent the temperamental Sebastian from competing with his older brothers for the throne. The prince allowed Sebastian one year to get his life in order and to right the many wrongs he'd done in his short lifetime. At the end of his year, Sebastian would be sent to the chantry in Kirkwall, the largest chantry in the Free Marches.

Sebastian was incensed, believing his father rejected him in favor of his elder siblings. The prince and princess tried to calm him, but his fate was set. His rage was ignored and he became depressed. My father took pity on him, and without asking the prince's permission, he tutored Sebastian with me in melee combat. My lessons had been going on for years, since I was strong enough to swing a longsword. When Sebastian joined my sessions, I was far advanced in swordplay and was able to assist with tutoring.

Father was a warrior but he was also well versed in rogue skills. Because of my small build and unusual dexterity, Father had taught me to wield longswords, use a shield to bash an opponent or ward off an attacker's blow, attack stealthily with daggers, and fire a shortbow with relative accuracy. My favorite thing, though, was fighting with two swords. Daggers had their purpose, I supposed, but I loved the heft of a longsword the sound of it slicing through the air.

As our training progressed, Sebastian's swordsmanship skills increased. His gratitude was aimed more at me than at Father. I was flattered. No, I was elated. He left off his womanizing and he wooed me with the finesse of a man much older than his years. After pining for him so long, I finally won his love. And after much persuasion and many promises from him, I let myself be seduced. He swore we would marry as soon as he could arrange it. It would be soon, because his year was almost up.

We would have no choice but to elope. My parents would be disappointed but they would come to understand. To elude the prince, we would have to leave Starkhaven for a while. Eventually, maybe when our first child was born, we'd return. The prince would be unwilling (and unable) to force a married man and a father into the chantry, and we could live our lives as we pleased. In a few years, all our misdeeds would be forgotten.

We met as often as we could and planned our escape. Timing was crucial. We would have to make our move soon. The prince had already taken Sebastian to Kirkwall twice to see the chantry and to meet with the renowned Grand Cleric Elthina. Sebastian was impressed with her. He went on about the magnificence of the Kirkwall chantry and the grand cleric's wisdom. As he spoke of them, unease snaked into my mind. Still, he insisted he was wholly devoted to me.

"I won't be able to leave the palace as often as before," he announced one night, shortly after his second visit to Kirkwall. "Father's always about, and he seems to be watching me. So if I don't see you for a couple of weeks, don't be alarmed. I'll come for you at my first opportunity, and we'll be together. I promise you this."

I believed him. Of course I believed him. He would never lie to me. Never.

I had written a note for my parents and kept it hidden, to leave for them when I eloped. I couldn't vanish and leave them to worry, could I? That would be too cruel. They would be upset, but they would know I was safe and in good care. Father had grown fond of Sebastian. He would forgive him quickly, I was sure, and convince Mother to do likewise.

As he predicted, our meetings were brief and far between. Not just two weeks, but _four_ weeks went by before I saw him again. He was all apologies and promises, and I couldn't stay angry. Another few weeks passed with no word, then I got a message to meet him in a nearby village. And so it continued for… months? A year? His time to enter the chantry was long past. Had the prince had a change of heart? Was he reconsidering his decision, weighing Sebastian's current behavior and attitudes against those of his past? If so, I believed he would approve of him.

I continued to wait. Fueled by a mountain of love letters and those rare, short visits for a stolen embrace, a quick kiss on the cheek, declaring his love again and again, I waited. He treated me with respect, not wanting to make love again until we were wed. He wanted us to live and love in the purity of marriage, and I agreed. All this time, I stayed ready for him to take me away. A sensible woman would have demanded more of an explanation for his long absences, but I was excited by the idea of being stolen away by my lover in the night.

Everything changed when my parents were killed. A group of men invaded our home one night. Even my father's formidable skills were no match when he was outnumbered ten to one. To insure their victory, they broke his spirit by murdering my mother first. The shock of seeing her run through caused him to falter just long enough for the attackers to take him down. I was away from home that evening, having a rare, romantic, clandestine meeting with Sebastian. If I'd been home I would have been killed as well. It wouldn't be the last time fate, or the Maker Himself, intervened directly in my life.

Prince Vael instructed me to stay at a house within the palace walls. My own home was, as he put it, "uninhabitable at this time." My mind conjured up all manner of gory, agonizing images of my parents in their final moments. The prince ordered the mansion cleaned and, at my request, put up for sale. It drew no buyers. Everyone knew it was a murder scene and superstition kept them away. More disturbing was that none of our valuables were taken. Whoever had killed them, or ordered them killed, did so out of a personal grudge.

During my mourning period, word reached me that Sebastian's father had indeed sent him to the chantry. Truth be told, he'd been an initiate for over a year. He wasn't locked away at the palace, as he'd told me all along. He spent most of his time in Kirkwall, and one week of each month at the local chantry—a concession for Princess Vael so she would be able to see her youngest son. He had been lying to me. I had to work at it, but I convinced myself he had good reason to lie.

Sebastian rebelled against the rules, but in his heart he had embraced the religion. Even after I questioned him about his lies, he insisted he was only going along with his father's wishes until he could escape. With the lies, more truth came out. Generations of Vaels had sent their third sons to the chantry. It was their tradition.

If I had to come up with a defense for my gullibility, it would be that I was too stunned by the loss of my family to think rationally. The future we'd planned came to as abrupt an end as my parents' lives. Sebastian's letters continued to arrive, but the tone of them changed. They were more about Andraste and the Maker and the chantry.

I'd had enough of his smooth talk. I was going to learn the truth—all of it, no matter what it was or how much it might hurt. On the week that he was at the local chantry, I went to see him. Placid-faced, robed men and women looked past me into some unseen spiritual world, or gave me a solemn nod of acknowledgement. Initiates, it seemed, weren't allowed to speak to visitors.

When I finally found him, Sebastian was surprised but pleased to see me. He led me to the garden to talk, and there he confessed that he had recently taken his vows. He still loved me, he said, and we would be married, but with conditions. He required me to join the chantry, and we would enter into a chaste marriage. This man who had taught me all I knew of love now wanted to ruin the only good thing I had left. I was crushed. And completely alone.

"A chaste marriage," I repeated. "You fully expect me to pledge my life to you, lie beside you every night, and not be allowed to touch you or kiss you? You deceived me, told me we would be married so I wouldn't bear the shame of your tavern wenches. Now you want to deny the very thing that defines marriage—expressing our love in every way. Having children. Sharing everything. Have you gone mad, Sebastian? Are _you_ able to hold to these rigid rules?"

"I am," he asserted. "And no, I haven't gone mad. I have finally found my sanity. My heart is pledged to Andraste. If I were to make love to you, I would be betraying my true bride. I can't allow myself to think such a thing!" He snatched my hands and held them tightly. "My dear Winter, I wronged you when I took your virtue, and it's my duty to marry you and restore your honor. We can't have relations and we won't have children, but I didn't abandon our love. We can be together in purity."

"Your _duty_? Marrying me is a _duty_ now?" I was livid and mortified. Did he mean to say he _regretted_ the times we spent together? That he was ashamed of our love? Ashamed of loving me? After bedding scores of village wenches, he was ashamed of _me_? The touch of his skin became offensive. I jerked my hands from his.

As for my faith, I believed in the Maker and I always had believed. But I had serious reservations about the worship of Andraste. "I don't know what kind of nonsense you've been taught, Sebastian, but you're delusional if you think I'll agree to something as ludicrous as a chaste marriage. Who ever heard of such a thing? And you do it out of a sense of duty? How could you ask that of me?"

"Andraste would have us live pure, as she lived when she pledged herself to the Maker."

"She told you that, did she?" I sneered. "You, who can't commit to the chantry, who uses every excuse to run back to the castle, and to me… You're a hypocrite."

He was unruffled. "I admit I have made some mistakes and I'm battling my sinful nature, but my attitudes are being cleansed every day. Don't be angry, my love. All you need do is give yourself to the Maker, and we can be together." He was earnest, but I wasn't convinced that _he_ was convinced of his so-called attitude cleansing.

He went on as if I'd agreed to his nonsensical plan, and as if what he'd already told me wasn't insulting enough. "You'll have to abandon the violence you've embraced, as I have. Give up those swords you wear. Swordplay isn't for ladies, certainly not for chantry sisters. Leave the fighting to the templars, the guardians of our sanctuary. Forget your past and turn to the Maker. I will cherish you, and you will be my Andraste."

"Your history is a bit muddled, Brother Sebastian. Andraste led the rebellion against the Tevinter Emperium. And her weak, jealous husband betrayed her, as I recall. She was a soldier, and she never laid her weapons aside voluntarily. You revere Andraste as a prophet. I respect her as a warrior."

He gave me the most maddeningly condescending smile, as if he were correcting a wayward child. "You blaspheme the Maker when you don't revere His bride."

In my hurt and anger, I raged at him. "I refuse to believe the Maker fell in love with a human woman—a _married_ woman—and claimed her for His own. What kind of Maker do you serve who condones unfaithfulness? You believe a fairy tale, Sebastian. Your beliefs are in error, and the worship of Andraste is heresy."

_Ah, so I touched a nerve._ His countenance darkened until he hardly resembled the man I once loved. He'd gone from a delightful companion and sensitive lover to a religious fanatic, but one that, I suspected, was still wavering in his faith. Today, though, he seemed fully in the grip of the chantry teachings or his skewed version of them. "Repent, before the Maker strikes you down. If you don't, and if He doesn't smite you where you stand, I will."

I could take no more of this. Rejection was one thing. But threatening my life over his on-again, off-again beliefs was deplorable, and I wasn't having it. He may well try to take my life, but I would not back down. "You mean to kill me? Do you really believe Andraste is some kind of deity? She is not the Maker's bride. That was some gibberish tale invented by people in her time who felt guilty for betraying her to the Tevinter."

"Enough!" he shouted. Gathering his composure and wrapping himself in his invisible cloak of self-righteousness, he magnanimously gave me another chance. "I don't know what's gotten into you, Winter MacEwan, but I won't have you speaking against Our Lady. Because I care so deeply for you, I will give you one more chance. Recant your lies against the holy Andraste, and I will go with you to the reverend mother to dedicate your life and seek forgiveness for your sins."

I glared at him for a long minute. This wasn't the man I loved. He was a stranger, flighty and temperamental. Worse, he was a pompous fool. "No," I said. "I don't need another chance. I won't recant because that is what I believe. If you believe otherwise, that's your choice. I want nothing more to do with you or with your bullshit religion."

His face went red with rage. His once-beautiful eyes bulged. He began to sputter until he found the words that utterly shattered my heart. "Get out. Get out of Starkhaven. By my authority as a Vael, I strip you of your citizenship and your property. Further, you are to be imprisoned for blasphemy until I decide you've repented. Only then will you be taken to the border and left there. You cannot return; you body cannot be buried here. By royal decree, Winter MacEwan, your are exiled." He turned to a nearby templar and beckoned him over. "This woman has committed blasphemy and conspiracy against the royal family. Have her thrown in prison."

"You lying bastard!" I hissed. "I've done nothing wrong. I would never 'conspire' against your family. Further, some may frown upon blasphemy but it's not a crime. You spout hollow religious rhetoric, but you're as corrupt as a demon."

He backhanded me across the mouth, knocking me to the floor. With a last contemptuous glance, he turned his back on me and walked away. The templar hauled me to my feet and brought me to the city guards. I was disarmed and stripped of my armor, given plain linen prison garments to wear, and shoved into a cold cell. Better there, in the cold, empty room, than a life with a cold and empty man. I hoped he came to a decision on my "repentance" soon. I didn't want to spend another moment in Starkhaven than was necessary. I didn't want to live, for that matter. Starkhaven was stark indeed, but it was no haven.

"Starkprison," I muttered irrationally. "Starkhades. Maker curse this wretched land."

Weeks passed, and I waited for Sebastian to come to some decision on my exile or, better still, an execution. I despised him with the same depth of passion that I had once loved him. My heart grew calloused, but its hardness couldn't compare to Sebastian's cruelty. I was convinced he would have me executed, though he'd not threatened as much. Maybe my mind had snapped as his had.

After a time, a guard came to my cell and tossed some cloth through the bars. "Put these on." They were plain garments, like all the poor women wore. What better to wear to one's execution than a bland frock and worn boots? (I had become obsessed with the execution idea.) When I'd changed, the guard escorted me to the prison courtyard where an open cart awaited. There were neither gallows nor an executioner's block. There was just the cart.

A magistrate approached, pulled a scroll from his sleeve, unrolled it and read: "Winter MacEwan, you are formally exiled from Starkhaven for life. Furthermore, you are forbidden burial in this land. By order of Sebastian Vael, Marques of Starkhaven."

In a display of contempt, I spat on the ground at the mention of his name and his newly-adopted title. Rather incongruous for a chantry brother who had taken vows of poverty and humility, wouldn't you say? The guards shoved me into the cart and it rolled away, taking me south toward Kirkwall and the coast. I could lose myself in the city, or better yet, take ship and leave the cursed Free Marches and its memories behind.

When we arrived at the Kirkwall pier, the driver hopped down and produced a bundle that he'd been instructed to give me when he reached our destination. It contained my armor, weapons, and a sizeable chest of coin, along with a letter from Princess Vael. She apologized for her son's rash decisions and the ill treatment I'd received. She regretted his decree, but it was irreversible for any but the one who issued it—Sebastian himself. The coin, she said, wasn't charity, but mine by right. She had purchased my mansion.

A ship at port was bound for Highever in Ferelden the following day. Perfect. I found an inn, rented a room, and washed the last of Starkhaven's dirt from my skin. It felt good to be back in my armor and wearing my swords again. The only problem remaining was what to do with the gold. It was too much and too heavy to carry about. I knew no one with which to leave it in Kirkwall. I could invest it. Perhaps I could buy house in Kirkwall—what an interesting idea.

A few inquiries led me to a snarky weasel named Gamlin Amell. He was trying to sell his family estate for an exorbitant sum. It was a fine home, to be sure, but nowhere near worth the price he was asking.

"I think I'll have to pass on your offer, Messer Amell," I said, and tried to leave. He grasped my arm.

"Don't be so hasty," he said testily. "We can negotiate, can't we? I see you like the estate. How about I drop the price 100 sovereigns?"

"I have a better offer. First, get your hand off my arm. Then you shove this house—"

"Alright, alright," he interrupted. He explained that he was in deep trouble because of his gambling debts. "So you see, I really need the money. They might kill me if I don't pay."

"What a heartbreaking tale," I said with mock sympathy, "but I don't believe you. No gambler would let a mark run up that much debt knowing he was incapable of paying it off. Now I will suggest a reasonable price, and you can take it or leave it. Final offer." I named a sum that was more than fair, and he knew it.

"You're a cold-hearted one," he groused, but he was eager to get his greedy paws on all that gold and sign the house over to me. In short order, I was four thousand sovereigns lighter and the proud owner of a house I would never inhabit. My problems were solved. As for Gamlin's… well, they weren't my problems, were they? I kept the name of the estate as it was—Amell Estate. My name was listed as owner with the city registrar, but no one else would have that information.

I returned to the inn and slept more peacefully than I had in months. For a person with no country, no family, no home (the Amell Estate was an investment only), and no friends, I was remarkably at ease. Having nothing left to lose gives one a new perspective.

I woke before dawn and went to the pier. The ship was to sail at first light. I paid for passage and boarded it, bound for Ferelden.

* * *

Part 2 – Girl, Interrupted

Duncan found me when I was fighting off five bandits who thought to relieve me of my coin. Like most bullies, they thought a woman was an easy target. They likely assumed my armor was a pretense at looking tough, and the two longswords I carried were for show or fashion. Why walk into a trap, you might ask. After the long, solitary stay in prison and the dull sail, a bit of activity was a welcome change.

The thugs, unimaginative beasts that they were, lured me into an alley. One of them came to fetch me, wringing his hands and saying his wife was about to give birth and he didn't know what to do. Neither did I, in such a case. He was as bad an actor as he was a bandit. But I was curious; I followed him into the alley where four more bandits lay in wait. They threatened and postured, brandishing their swords and daggers. I drew my swords as well, twirling them about to show off.

"Let's have at it, then," I said with a wicked smile. "Who wants to be first? Or will it be all of you at once? I'm game."

One of them leered, "So you want to take us on all at once, do you? You foreign women are a wild lot."

"Keep talking that way," I snarled, "and your life won't be the first thing you lose."

They spewed more threats and seasoned them heavily with curses, trying to surround me so only the man in front of me would risk injury. The problem was, none of them wanted to be the man in front. I turned slowly, targeting each one. They moved around. They were cowards, just as I'd figured.

"Oh come on now, are you going to keep a lady waiting all day?" I taunted. They were less motivated than they'd been earlier. "Are you as weak and faint-hearted as you look?"

The last jab riled them up enough to attack. They flailed and slashed in blind rage, without any skill. Too bad for them, because even lacking swordsmanship, they wouldn't give up. If they'd walked away, they would still be alive. If they'd had a whit of sense, they would have fled when the first of their companions fell. They were nothing if not stupidly stubborn. While the short fight went on, I saw another man come into the alley. He didn't join in. I guessed he was their leader, and I'd have to fight him after I finished off his lackeys.

It was all over in about two minutes. I looked down at their corpses in disgust. "The next time you waylay an innocent, try posting an archer on the roof," I advised the dead men, more for the benefit of their leader, obviously, than for the slain buffoons he'd employed. The leader still stood to the side watching, not speaking or approaching. "Come to try your luck too?" I goaded him. I'd had enough of the dirty alley and was ready to move on.

"I came to see if you needed help," he answered. "It appears your attackers were the ones who needed help instead. You're quite an accomplished swordswoman." His diction and tone indicated he was more cultured than the louts that littered the alley. He was an older man, bearded and well dressed—not as a noble but in some sort of light armor and robes, and he carried a beautifully crafted, barbed dagger and a sword. Whoever he was, with weapons like those, he knew how to fight.

"Well then, the show is over. I hope you enjoyed yourself," I said scornfully. It wasn't that I wanted or needed his help. I just found it strange that he didn't try to step in when he saw a woman being attacked. Well, no matter. Maybe all Fereldan men were asses.

"Forgive me, I haven't introduced myself," he said as I started to walk away. "My name is Duncan. I was most impressed with your fighting skills."

"Well, ser, I was _not_ impressed with your passivity," I retorted. "What if I hadn't been able to defend myself? Would you have watched them slaughter me?"

"Certainly not," Duncan answered, "and I apologize for giving the wrong impression. I saw that your skill was more than a match for these fellows. If I thought you were in danger, I would have put them to the sword myself."

"I'm so relieved to hear it," I went on in the same derisive tone. "Now that you've put my fears to rest, I'll be on my way."

"Please, if I may have a moment," he said.

"Your moment is over. Good day, ser."

"I'd like to invite you to join the Grey Wardens."

That caught my interest. I'd heard of Grey Wardens but never met one. Famed warriors, blight-quellers, griffin-riding heroes of old. This man didn't look like he fit any of those descriptions. Maybe the warrior part, but famed? I didn't think so. Still…

"Grey Wardens, eh? And who might you be? Their recruiter?"

A handsome, dark-haired young man in expensive-looking custom armor stepped into the alley. He looked around at the bodies and his eyes widened in alarm. "What happened here? Warden-Commander, I trust you are unharmed."

"I am, Aiden." He gestured toward me. "I heard a commotion and found this young lady throwing bandits around like ragdolls."

"You're thinking of recruiting her?"

"That is my hope," Duncan answered him, and then turned to me. "A blight is coming and I need able fighters in the wardens. You've more than proven your courage and capability."

I considered his offer. My life in recent months had gone to hell. I had no purpose. Why not die doing something worthwhile? A physical death was far preferable to the emptiness I felt inside.

"I accept. I'll join your wardens."

Introductions were made before we set out for some place called Ostagar. The younger man was Aiden Cousland, son of the teyrn of Highever. He was a pleasant enough fellow, well mannered and respectful. He had a mabari war hound at his side that he called Alduin. The hound seemed too friendly to be of much help in battle, but in the future I would learn just how well the term "war hound" suited his breed.

"I'm Winter," I said, adding no further details. There was nothing I cared to share with these strangers. Or with anyone else.

"From Starkhaven," Duncan observed, but he didn't ask prying questions. "Welcome to the Grey Wardens, Winter. Let's go collect my other recruits and we'll be on our way."

The others turned out to be a knight named Ser Jory, a rather shady fellow called Daveth, and a handful of humans and elves whose names escaped my memory as soon as I'd heard them. I was in no mood for chatter, so I kept to myself while the others went on about their wives or sweethearts of an elusive "golden haired lass with bad eyesight". Duncan was quiet too, speaking only when necessary to direct us or when one of the recruits quizzed him about our destination, the wardens, or our responsibilities. He guided us southward for almost four days, across a vast plain that made up central Ferelden, until we came to a bridge over a deep gorge. On the other side of the bridge was an old fortress, very large and partly in ruins. This was Ostagar. In its day, it must have been an imposing place. This day it seemed to be a sad reminder of past defeats.

Before we went to prepare for what Duncan called the "joining ritual," he brought us to meet the king. King Cailan, he said, was an ardent supporter of the Grey Wardens, and he wanted to personally welcome every new recruit.

_So this is the great King Cailan_, I thought. _Not so impressive._ He was young, blond, attractive, and reeked of wealth and privilege. Rich, handsome royals weren't my favorite people, as you might imagine. While his words and tone were gracious, he swaggered about like a master warrior in shiny armor that looked like it hadn't been worn for anything more dangerous than a parade. The monarch greeted and shook hands with each of the men, and then he came to me. He latched onto my hand and held it, eyeing me closely. I knew that look well.

"Welcome to Ostagar," he greeted. "Might I know your name?"

I quashed the sassy reply that came to mind and answered, "Thank you, Your Majesty. My name is Winter MacEwan."

"From Starkhaven!" he exclaimed, echoing Duncan's earlier observation but with obvious excitement. "I've been to Starkhaven numerous times in my travels. Would you be acquainted with the Vaels?"

"I am related to the Vaels, Sire."

"You're a noblewoman, then. Marvelous!" He leaned in to share a confidence. "I have to attend a strategy meeting with my advisor, but afterwards I'd like you to come to my tent so we can talk. I'd like to hear how my good friend Sebastian Vael is getting on these days."

I eyed him coldly and extricated my hand from his grasp. "King Cailan, I am not one of your maids or tavern wenches brought here for your entertainment. I'm here as a fighter, and nothing else."

Duncan was horrified at my directness and disrespect for his king. "Your Majesty, I apologize! I had no idea—"

Cailan was already laughing the matter off. "She's a spirited one, Duncan," he grinned. "No harm done." He didn't feel a whit of embarrassment at being publicly called on his clumsy attempt to bed me. Rather, he gazed at me with amused reproach, bowed his head in a mocking gesture of deference, and dismissed me with, "By your leave, Lady MacEwan."

Duncan sent me with the others to find a warden named Alistair to prepare for the joining, and he followed after his king. _Probably gushing apologies for my inexcusable behavior_, I thought. If anyone behaved badly, it was the boy-king of Ferelden.

Alistair waited for us in an area at the western side of the fortress. He introduced himself and had us do the same, then he told us a little about our first task as recruits. He asked if there were any questions, and answered all except those having to do with the joining ritual. Whether he didn't know or wasn't allowed to tell, I couldn't say.

He led us to the center of the lower camp where Duncan was waiting to give us our assignment. We were to go into the Korkari Wilds, find some documents in an old ruin, and along the way, kill a number of darkspawn and bring back vials of their blood.

"Darkspawn blood!" Daveth repeated. "What in Andraste's name is _that_ for?"

"For the joining," Duncan answered simply, without further explanation. Whatever this "joining" was all about, they were awfully reluctant to speak of it. You'd think we would have been suspicious…

* * *

Cailan had been disappointed when he arrived at Ostagar, eager to see the senior Grey Warden again, only to learn that Duncan had already left on his recruitment tour. He had been looking forward to seeing him again. They had been introduced at his coronation, and he held the elder man in high regard. In fact, Cailan was fascinated with the Grey Wardens. He thought them to be the best fighters in Ferelden, and this darkspawn attack gave him the opportunity he'd hoped for—to fight alongside the legendary Duncan.

During the weeks he waited for Duncan to return, there were skirmishes with darkspawn that his men and Loghain's troops easily won. Deep down, he was dismayed that the battles were too easy. The monsters were ugly and they smelled like rotting corpses, but they were scarcely a challenge for Ferelden's weakest warriors.

To Cailan's amusement, though, the warden Duncan had left in charge in his absence was the king's supposedly secret half brother, Alistair. Cailan had known about him since he was a lad, but he didn't think Alistair had an inkling about his paternity and their kinship. Equally amusing was that even though the two men bore a strong resemblance to each other, nobody appeared to notice it.

Alistair was a decent sort, he'd heard. He'd been educated in the chantry and trained as a templar until Duncan conscripted him some months back. Cailan was aware of the rigorous life and discipline of templars, and he didn't envy the fellow. What normal man would want to be locked away with nothing but bland chantry sisters for amusement? But he had to admit it touched off a spark of admiration for his sibling. If this Alistair was as dedicated a warden as he was a templar—and he had no reason to think otherwise, the upcoming war could be more interesting than he'd anticipated. Cailan wished him no ill will, and he hoped the younger, illegitimate Theirin would live up to the battle prowess that marked his lineage. Whether Alistair knew of it or not, Maric's blood flowed through his veins. Cailan didn't want to see a drop of it spilled. Deep in his heart, buried so far he couldn't sense it himself, Cailan cared about Alistair's well-being.

Nonetheless, physical traits aside, the half brothers had nothing in common, the king thought. In some ways, he was wrong.

* * *

Part 3 – Swamp People

Our excursion into the swamp was eventful, to put it mildly. First there was the argument over who would lead the group. Naturally, we assumed Alistair would lead, but he told us to choose a leader and follow them.

"Ser Alistair, aren't you going to lead us? You're the only true warden here," Jory said. His tone reflected the confusion we all felt.

"I will not," Alistair answered. "I want to test _your_ leadership skills. Now either pick a leader, or someone can step up and the rest of you fall in line. Failing that, I'll appoint one of you to lead."

It was a bad idea. The other recruits, all male, argued over why they should be the one to lead. Jory was a knight and had battle experience. Aiden was a noble and a natural leader, he claimed. Daveth was adept at stealth and could get us through the swamp undetected—another unsupported claim. A Dalish elf said he was better suited because he was raised in the forest. And on it went. Everyone had a reason why they should be leader, but nobody did anything.

I grew tired of the bickering and walked off, calling back to the group, "I'm going on ahead. When you boys decide which of you is the best leader, feel free to come along." Aiden caught the irony of my statement and he was the first to follow—somewhat sheepishly. The others kept at it until we were almost out of their sight before they fell in line. Alistair observed us without comment.

We fought groups of darkspawn and collected vials of their foul-smelling blood. All the non-aggressive animals we saw had been killed, their bodies broken and twisted, or ripped apart and disemboweled. Everything from large elk to small rabbits lay in bloody heaps. We were attacked by wolves, uncovered the hiding place of a demon, and at last we found the ruin where a broken chest sat. The chest once held the documents we were seeking, but now it was empty.

A strange young woman appeared out of nowhere and berated us for invading her wilds, calling us names and ridiculing each of us in turn. She was very beautiful but wore scanty clothing that revealed most of her chest, and had only a thin string across her back holding the strips of cloth in place. As a woman, I understood that her attempt to entice was calculated. Her attitude, though, was hardly alluring. Instead of being enthralled with her sensuality, the men were frightened of her, calling her "witch of the wilds." Only Aiden watched her with casual interest, unafraid and openly attracted to her. She and Alistair took an instant dislike to each other.

"Could you please tell me if you know where the papers are?" I prompted her.

"First tell me your name, and I will tell you mine," was her response.

_Must we go through these idiotic formalities when all I asked for was a damn set of papers?_ "My name is Winter."

"Winter," she repeated, mocking as usual. I didn't care. Every comment she made was mocking or just plain rude. "So you are cold hearted?" She chuckled. "I like you already. You may call me Morrigan."

_Sure, if it will get your stubborn ass moving_… "_Morrigan_, do you have our papers?"

"I do not, but my mother does," she answered. "Follow me if you want them."

Her mother was what I imagined a witch of the wilds to look like. She appeared to be a hundred years old or more, had stringy grey hair and eerie yellow eyes, and she ranted semi-coherent nonsense to us. The elves in our party whispered among themselves, using the term "Asha'Bellanar"—either a name, a description, or a plea to the elven gods for help. The old woman acknowledged their chatter with a faint smile.

Having retrieved the papers, we returned to the fortress. Alistair took us to the western area where we'd first met him, and Duncan arrived minutes later. He finally revealed what the joining ritual involved. We were each to drink a vial of the darkspawn blood we'd collected. Revolting but necessary, Duncan told us.

We were warned that not everyone who went through the joining survived it. Darkspawn blood was poison. Daveth and Jory went first, and they were affected immediately. They choked and died before our eyes. The elves fared better. All of them survived. Among the human men, none of the others died right away, but one went into convulsions and gnawed his tongue until it was a blob of mangled tissue, and he clawed at his face, leaving deep bloody grooves. Duncan put the poor wretch out of his misery. Three deaths, nine survivors, and two of us left to go through the apparently torturous process.

Aiden's joining was successful. As with the others, his eyes went white and he choked, doubled over, and collapsed, but he woke as soon as Duncan spoke to him. I was last. In spite of all I'd just witnessed, I wasn't afraid. Either I would die from the poison or I would begin my new life as a Grey Warden.

The blood smelled awful, like stagnant water and human waste. The taste was as bad as the stench. And the pain was indescribable. There was a violent cramping in my middle, my blood felt like it would boil in my veins, and I thought my heart would explode. A vision of a huge dragon appeared, so close I could have touched it. I heard whisperings beneath the dragon's roar, in a language unknown to me. The sound of hissing voices swelled until it was deafening, louder than the dragon's thundering roar. Dizziness overcame me and I lost consciousness. When I awoke moments later, the pain was gone, leaving only weakness in my limbs and a horrible taste in my mouth from the blood. Duncan and Alistair were standing over me.

"Congratulations," Duncan said. "How do you feel?"

"Grateful, if you'll tell me I never have to do that again," I answered.

Duncan held out his hand and helped me to my feet. "Take a few minutes to regain your strength, then come find me. The king wants to meet with us."

The man standing beside the king wasn't only his advisor, I learned, but also his father-in-law. I was glad for it because it would keep him from making another offer to meet in his tent to 'talk' about his dear friend Sebastian. Not only was the king married, but also with his wife's father in the camp he still brazenly tried to entice a woman to his tent.

No, surely not. Loghain's tent was right next to the king's. Was he that daring, or had I been mistaken? Either way, I had neither trust nor respect for him.

Within hours, I would regret my ill feelings toward King Cailan. Guilt makes a poor substitute for annoyance.


	2. Game of Thorns, Night of the Living Dead

Chapter 2 – Night of the Living Dead, Medieval Style

Part 1 – The Storm and What Came After It

* * *

It wasn't a battle. It was an outright massacre. Alistair, Aiden and his hound, and I survived only because we'd been sent to the Tower of Ishal to light the signal beacon. We couldn't see what was going on below us in the battlefield, but the sounds and screams were horrific. Immediately after the fire was lit, a band of darkspawn ambushed us on the roof, almost as if they'd waited for us to finish our task. It was… eerie. I passed out from blood loss, expecting to wake up in the hereafter (to the sound of the Maker reprimanding me for disrespecting Andraste). Instead, I awoke days later in Morrigan's shack, healed and rested.

We three wardens—the last of our order in Ferelden—conferred and decided we'd imposed on the two eccentric women's hospitality long enough. Flemeth had one more bit of help to give us. None of us suspected that "help" was to have Morrigan accompany us. Alistair protested, Aiden approved, and I was indifferent. If she could be of real help to us, fine. If she was hell-bent on using her cruel wit against Alistair, she could stay in the swamps for all I cared. Aiden persuaded us to let her to come along. If she became more trouble than help, he had no qualms about my ejecting her from our party. With that agreement, Alistair and I relented. She suggested we go north to Lothering, the nearest village, for supplies.

On the walk between Flemeth's hut and Lothering, Aiden related some stories about his family and their relationship with the Theirins. Aiden and Cailan were a year apart in age, and they'd been friends. He told of a young prince who was sensitive to others' needs, generous, and fun-loving; a man devoted to family, his country, and his people above all else. When he became king, he sought ways to make his subjects' lives easier—that is, when corrupt advisors didn't deliberately hide the truth from him. King Cailan was not the power-mad, arrogant, lecherous man I thought him to be. The more I heard, the worse I felt about the way I spoke to him in our only meeting.

Aiden, a gentle, cultured, and attractive man, was the first to befriend me. (No strings attached, which was the _only_ kind of friendship anyone would get from me.) He leaned near and confided, "Don't feel badly, Winter. Cailan would not have taken your words to heart. He was not a man easily offended." I nodded, but the guilt would persist for weeks before I could get past it.

Lothering was a dying village. The people were desperate, destitute, and terrified. Families were separated and children were wandering alone looking for their parents. It was a heartrending sight. It was from the chantry's senior templar, Ser Bryant, that we learned Loghain had put all the blame for the king's death on the wardens. We were appalled at the crazy accusation, but Ser Bryant assured us few people believed the story. Seeing how poorly outfitted we were, he offered what little armor he could spare and wished us well. Before we left him, I urged him to get out of Lothering before the horde struck.

"That is my hope, Warden," he said, but his voice didn't reflect any _real_ hope. He was man of duty. Whether he lived or died, he would do so fighting for the refugees under his protection.

_I take back my initial assessment of Fereldan men. They aren't all asses, as I'd thought when I first arrived._ Thus far I'd met several who were fine examples of courage and sacrifice: Alistair. Aiden. Ser Bryant. Duncan. King Cailan.

In Lothering, we found two more fighters willing to join our party. One was a chantry sister named Leliana. None of us wanted her along, and I was repulsed by the mere thought of having a preachy chantry mouse in our midst. However, she fought like a she-devil, so there was more to her than her little girl lisp and her innocent act revealed. If we weren't so desperate for fighters, I would have flatly denied her plea to join us. But we weren't in a position to be picky, so with her promise not to start reciting the Chant of Light or proselytizing, I let her come along.

Better, we found an imprisoned Qunari warrior called Sten. He was a big fellow—a giant compared to me—and quite strong. He wouldn't say why he was locked in a small cage without room enough to sit and placed outdoors like an animal, but I wasn't going to leave anyone to be devoured alive by the darkspawn that were only days away from the village. The revered mother, who held the key to the cage and acted as the law of the village, refused to release him into my custody. Irked by her phony piety and very real cruelty, I picked the lock and freed him myself.

Our seventh, and most unique member, was a stone golem that went by the name of Shale. We found him by accident, after we'd encountered a merchant who claimed to have a golem control rod, which he gave me without charge. The golem, he said, was in a village to the south called Honnleath. We'd all heard of golems—ancient warriors built by the dwarves, made completely of stone—but none of us had actually seen one. If for no other reason than to satisfy my curiosity, I felt it was worth investigating.

It wasn't as easy as waving a rod and walking off with a new stone soldier. We first had to go through clusters of darkspawn, demons, and one possessed tabby cat. Then on to the golem. He came to life—or the equivalent of "life" to a hunk of rock—and immediately took on a personality like Morrigan's. His comments were sardonic, abrasive, and condescending. I was tempted to leave the thing behind, but an indestructible soldier was too tempting to pass up. And as with every new member of our band, I reserved the option to boot him out at any time. We left Honnleath and went in search of a permanent camp.

We found a place which, in retrospect, was possibly the worst we could have chosen in terms of defensibility. Instead of looking for high ground, we picked an indentation surrounded by a sharp, natural embankment, with a small opening that served as a road. Only one way in or out, so that in itself was a plus, if one didn't take into consideration the darkspawn rogues with the ability to rise up out of the ground at any place and time. We ignored the fact and camped there anyway.

Its best feature, in my opinion, was the secluded waterfall. After each bout of hiking and fighting, we'd return covered in sweat and darkspawn blood. If we were to live in close quarters, we needed a place to wash off. It was one thing to have to stomach the stench of the creatures while we fought them, quite another to wear their smell on our flesh and clothing during our down time. Even Shale complained of the stink. You can imagine how bad it was if a talking rock could smell it. I wish I could say the water came from a hot spring and it was warm year-round, but that wasn't the case. It was icy cold, but better than no water at all.

Alistair, Leliana, Aiden, and I grouped our tents in the middle of the area around the campfire. Morrigan separated herself from the group, choosing to camp as far from us as she could get and still be inside the cul-de-sac. Shale never slept, so we always had someone (or something) standing guard. If Sten slept, I never saw it. He had no tent and carried no additional equipment. If he couldn't wear it at the time, he didn't keep it. He was as practical as he was stubborn. The rest of us took turns on watch anyway, excluding Morrigan. She saw no threat and therefore felt no need to deprive herself of sleep.

Regarding the rulership of Ferelden, Cailan's widow Anora became queen upon her husband's death. She allowed her father Loghain to declare himself as regent, and he took control of everything: land, armies, and the citizens. The new regent called all the nobles of the country together to issue his edicts. The first rumblings of civil war were heard in the landsmeet that day.

Politics didn't concern us. Our duty was unchanged: to find allies and raise an army to combat the blight. Alistair and I looked over the treaties we'd retrieved from the wilds. These ancient Grey Warden documents compelled Ferelden's cities, as well as her population of elves and dwarves, to supply their armies when the wardens required them. Our first stop would be Redcliffe. Alistair knew Arl Eamon. Since the arl's armies weren't at Ostagar, he would still have all his men. It would be a good start in building a militia.

Alistair pushed me into the role of leader, and I gave him no argument. It was a surprising move on his part, all things considered. He was a native Fereldan; I was a foreigner. The man was a powerful warrior. He was fearless. He would follow any order I gave, but he wouldn't take charge. If he didn't have the willingness or self-confidence to lead, we were better off with someone who had those traits. Aiden would probably have been a capable leader but we weren't to find out. He was too busy flirting with Morrigan to care who was in commanding the group.

The night before we were to set out for Redcliffe, I was resting in my tent and I overheard Alistair and Aiden talking. Alistair was still mourning Duncan's loss. Duncan had been a father figure to him, and he took his death hard. Aiden related his story of how his family had been betrayed and slain by a man they considered a friend. Aiden's older brother Fergus had left their estate earlier in the day to join with the army at Ostagar, but their parents, younger sister Alyssa, Fergus' wife, and his young son were among the dead. It was only with Duncan's help that Aiden escaped the slaughter. The killer was now Loghain's chief lackey, a man named Rendon Howe.

The loss of our leader and mentor affected me too, but not as deeply as it did Alistair because I hardly got to know Duncan. Still, during the time we traveled together from Highever to Ostagar, he'd been kind to me. I felt badly for my lack of courtesy when we first met. Guilt over my unfavorable feelings toward King Cailan still haunted me too. True, the time I'd spent in the Starkhaven prison changed me, but I didn't _want_ to be standoffish. Aloofness was my only defense against being deceived and hurt again, and I wasn't prepared to drop my guard.

Despite attempts to deny my feelings, Aiden's story brought back the memory my own parents, and his grief and outrage sparked mine. Aiden _knew_ why his parents were murdered, and by whom. Who killed my parents, and why, was still a mystery. A random break-in didn't make sense. The murders were too sadistic, too personal. It had to be someone who knew us, someone who wanted my father's position, or less likely, someone who was jealous of our relation to the Vaels. Hardly motives for murder.

While my mind was on a self-flagellating bent, I recounted the romance-deception-betrayal cycle with Sebastian. I chided myself for having been a naïve fool to fall in love with a rabid womanizer in the first place. How quickly he went from scoundrel to gentleman to religious fanatic! His early misbehavior was his way of getting his father's attention, but once he had it, it cost him the freedom he craved. It wasn't me that he needed. Still, I was the one who paid the price for the prince's stubborn adherence to family tradition and for Sebastian's wrath—and I had nothing to do with their disagreements.

_Wallowing in self-pity, are we? Let it go._

_I can't. I want to, but I don't know how._

Thoughts of the past kept me from sleeping, and after the men retired I took a walk around the camp. I made a pretense of patrolling the area, coming across the ever-wakeful Shale. "Can't sleep? Pity," he said, pitilessly. "I'm not bothered with such fleshly weaknesses."

"Yes, so you've told me. Many times," I sighed. I wasn't in the mood for his arrogance. Whoever gave this stone creature the power of speech should have been hanged. Then again, Shale was probably hundreds of years old. His creator was long dead while the creation was immortal. What a cruel trick of fate! I left Shale to bask in his perfection and returned to my tent.

* * *

Aiden jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward Winter's tent, lowered his voice, and asked Alistair, "What's her story?"

Alistair shrugged. "I wish I knew."

"Come on, what's so secret that you can't share it with a friend?" Aiden prodded.

"There's nothing to tell. She doesn't talk about herself."

"Alistair, I've heard you two talking when you're on watch together. Do you expect me to believe she never, ever talks about herself or her life before she became a warden?"

"Believe it. She never, ever talks about herself."

"I thought you two had grown close. Guess I was wrong."

Alistair sighed. "I've tried to draw her out of her silence, but she won't budge. What more can I do? Nag her until she spills her life story?"

"You're just the man for the job," Aiden teased. "But seriously, don't you wonder how a young, lovely woman came to be in a foreign land all alone, and she keeps to herself as if she's carrying around a dark secret or something?"

"Of course I wonder. If she wants to talk, she will. If not, there's no forcing the issue. One thing we _do_ know about her is that she's headstrong."

"Maybe she's not the sociable type," Aiden proffered. "Like Morrigan."

"She's _nothing_ like Morrigan," Alistair said. Winter wasn't open about her life, but she was a far cry from the spiteful apostate. Too, Winter was slowly beginning to show signs of trust. She was still mum about her past, but by her tone and mien, she wasn't unapproachable as she'd been the day she arrived at Ostagar. Occasionally she let her humor show, and he found her fun and playful. But she quickly recovered herself, and her mask fell back into place. He believed, with patience, he would eventually see the real Winter MacEwan. He looked forward to the discovery. Until then… "I worry about her," he thought aloud.

"Do you? Why? Is there something you're not telling me?" Aiden's interest was piqued.

Alistair smiled. "Sorry to disappoint you, but no, I don't know juicy gossip about our leader."

"Well, if that's the best entertainment you can offer tonight, I'm going to turn in and let you have the watch alone," Aiden sniffed.

"Right, of course. I'd tell you to say hello to Morrigan for me, but I can't stand the bitch."

Aiden grinned at him, then ambled off in the direction of Morrigan's tent. Maybe she was in the mood for a tumble tonight. Her unpredictability made her more challenging, and because of it, his interest in her deepened. In spite of her warnings against the "weakness of love," Aiden felt himself falling for her.

Alistair gazed in the direction of Winter's tent, wondering for the hundredth time how and why she ended up here, in Ferelden, in the Grey Wardens. She was well educated, which indicated she came from nobility. He didn't believe she'd just grown bored with her life and set off on an adventure that ended with her drinking tainted blood and having nightmares like the rest of the wardens. There was more to her story, a lot more, but unless she saw fit to share it with him, he would have to accept her as she was and respect her privacy. For now.

* * *

The following morning I selected Alistair, Leliana, and Sten to accompany me to Redcliffe, and left Aiden in charge of the camp in my absence. Leliana was a childish, irritating woman, but she was a skilled archer and I wanted a balanced party of fighters. It would have been more balanced if I'd taken along Morrigan instead of Sten, but I figured Morrigan needed a break. Leliana annoyed Morrigan much more than she did me because of her open attraction to the witch. Morrigan had told her flatly she wasn't interested in women, least of all a chantry sister. In a rare moment of openness, she told Leliana she and Aiden were lovers. Not exactly a secret to the rest of us, but I was surprised she'd blurted it out. She tried to dissuade Leliana by insults and threats of bodily harm, but Leliana was either too smitten or too dense to get the message. She persisted in gawking at Morrigan with puppy eyes.

Alistair found amusement in the situation. Not that he cared who Leliana fancied—as long as he wasn't the target of her affection—but because it caused Morrigan so much displeasure. The witch had gone out of her way to ridicule him at every turn. This way, without saying a word, he was enjoying some payback.

Our camp wasn't too distant from Redcliffe. The town was situated on the southern bank of Lake Calenhad in a hilly region. As we topped the final hill before reaching the arling we were afforded a majestic view of the town and the lake. Here, Alistair called me aside for a private chat.

"I have something to tell you," he began. I braced myself for bad news. As it turned out, he was one of King Maric's bastard sons. He wanted to elaborate but I didn't care about his lineage.

"I see," I cut in. What difference did he think it made? We needed to see the arl. I already knew Arl Eamon raised Alistair until he was ten years old, then sent him to the chantry for his education. Or something along those lines.

"That's all you have to say? 'I see'? It means Cailan was my half-brother, and now that he's dead… Aren't you even curious as to why I didn't tell you any of this before?"

"Not at all," I answered. "I'm sure you had your reasons and I respect that."

"Fine," he huffed. "Let's just go on like we never had this conversation, and I'll make a note to myself that our leader has no interest in the lives of her companions."

"As you wish." I added with a cheeky smile and a low curtsy, "My prince."

"Agh! You're as difficult as Sten, you know that?"

"Maybe, but I'm prettier," I joked.

"Marginally," he snorted, then grew serious again. "I heard you moving about camp late last night. Is everything alright?"

Caught off guard, I was unable to come up with a reasonable excuse. "I… um, yes, everything is fine. I had a little bout of insomnia, but…" I shrugged and trailed off.

"You're not a good liar," he chided, "which I suppose speaks well of you. Anyway, I'm here for you, you know. If you ever need to talk, or if you just want company, or if you're sad or want to share good news, I'm available."

I appreciated his concern, but I'd grown self-reliant. Life lessons had caused me to shun people who tried to get too close. Experience was a grand teacher, if a cruel one. "Share my secrets with you? You're the biggest gossip in camp," I smiled. I was only half-joking now.

"Only if they don't know I'm gossiping about them," he said. "You've been forewarned, so it ruins the fun." After a pause, he returned to his serious note. "I've been watching you, Winter. Not in a creepy way, so don't look at me like that. I mean I've been attentive, and sometimes I see sadness in your eyes. Duncan saw it too. He told me he believed you had a death wish, and that was part of what made you such a good warden. Someone who's given up on life won't hold back in battle. And if that sounds callous, it's only my poor wording. Duncan was fond of you."

"As I was of him," I replied.

"Just so you're aware, my curiosity isn't mere idle nosiness where you're concerned. I wonder what could have happened to make such an intelligent and beautiful woman lose all hope."

"Flattery?" I countered archly. "It won't get you off watch duty, you know."

"I'm serious, Winter. I care about you."

"And I care about you, Alistair. And about Aiden. And, on occasion, the rest of the band, too."

"Well, there's a heartfelt attitude," he smirked. "Before we melt into two puddles of sentimental goo, let's move on and see what awaits us in Recliffe." For a change, he walked in the lead and I followed. I could tell by his bearing that I'd ruffled his feathers. It lasted as long as it took us to reach the bottom of the hill, then he stepped aside and allowed me to pass him.

A representative of the town met us on the way. "Help us!" he cried. He appeared on the verge of literally bursting into tears. "Our village is under attack and I've been stationed here to flag down help. Please, messers, speak with our leader. Come, I'll take you to Bann Teagan."

"Bann Teagan?" Alistair echoed. "He's here? Yes, please take us to him." Then he confided to me, "Bann Teagan is Arl Eamon's brother. He was the closest thing I had to an uncle."

If we had the support of the arl's brother, it could work in our favor. First things first, though. Redcliffe needed our help, and we had to learn what was happening to the town to ascertain if we could provide the aid they required.

The town square was lined with barricades, and on one side targets had been set up for the villagers to practice their archery and sword skills. (I use the word "skills" lightly. The poor townsfolk weren't prepared to fight off a cold, much less armed men.) The man led us into the chantry, then rushed ahead to tell Bann Teagan we were there.

A stunningly attractive man approached us. He appeared to be in his late thirties, smartly dressed, with chestnut hair and blue eyes. His neat moustache and goatee accentuated his…

…_kissable lips…_

…facial features. When he smiled, the warmth touched his eyes and gave them a gemlike sparkle. If this was Bann Teagan, I had no objection whatsoever to dealing with him.

"Welcome, friends. I am Bann Teagan," he confirmed.

_Maker, even his voice is beautiful!_

_Whoa, girl. Don't lose your head. Have you already forgotten where that can lead?_

Alistair greeted Bann Teagan, and the elder gent beamed upon seeing him again. "We were told all Grey Wardens died at Ostagar after they betrayed and killed the king. I didn't believe that story, but some people aren't as familiar with Loghain's flair for deception and manipulation."

_I hope I get to face this Loghain someday,_ I thought. _I'll give him _real_ reason to hate wardens._

"Bann Teagan, your man told us the village is under attack," I said, turning the conversation from politics to the immediate problem.

Teagan told us a bizarre story of walking corpses that had been attacking the village for a fortnight. Each night was worse and each attack more severe. He feared this night would be too much for them. The number of monsters increased, while the number of fighters from the town was thinning out. "Please, Alistair, we need your help. I don't know if we can hold out against these things."

Alistair glanced in my direction. "I want to help, Bann Teagan, but the final decision rests with Winter."

"Of course we'll help," I readily agreed. "Tell me more about these creatures so we'll know what we're up against. Do you know who or what might have summoned such beings?"

Before Teagan could reply, Sten muttered something about it being "pointless to save a tiny village." I was vexed by his rudeness, so I sent the rest of the party on a mundane errand to check out the village, see to any needs, help train the fighters, and talk to the people—with strict instructions to let Alistair do the talking.

"Let's find a place where we can sit and talk," Teagan offered when they'd left. There wasn't a quiet spot in the chantry because of the influx of refugees, many of whom were children. I was sure I recognized a few faces from Lothering—people who'd fled to the nearest town to find shelter from the horde, only to be assailed by another form of evil. He led me toward the front doors. On the way out, he spoke to the workers who were helping him find food and sleeping places for the homeless. He mentioned the name 'Jetta' to one of the workers.

"Is that woman Jetta?" I asked.

"Yes, why do you ask?" Teagan said. "Do you know her?"

"If you'll give me a moment, I have something for her," I said, adding in a near-whisper, "It's not good news." Teagan nodded and stood aside when I approached the woman. I gave her a small box I'd found in the wilds, which she recognized instantly. She thanked me graciously, with tears welling in her eyes.

I rejoined Teagan, who had witnessed the exchange. "Sad," he commented. "Their son came back weeks ago saying he didn't know where his father was, and that they'd lost contact when their camp was attacked by darkspawn. I hoped for the best but feared the worst."

"That's the hardest part of being a warden," I replied. "Fighting is easy compared to having to inform someone their loved ones have been killed."

"Indeed. We've had deaths here recently as well. I fear it will get worse before this is all over." He sighed heavily. "If you please, I'd like us to focus on the town. Come with me." We went to the tavern at the top of a steep hill. A few villagers were downing ale to try to bolster their courage for the coming night's battle.

Teagan found a table in a secluded corner, ordered mead for each of us, then he explained how the attacks had started shortly after his brother Eamon fell ill. Worst for him was that he couldn't get any news of his brother's condition. Even the arl's knights—what few were left in Redcliffe—couldn't approach the castle because the gates were supernaturally sealed shut.

"Why are there so few knights?" I wondered. Surely the arl had a large complement of them.

"The arlessa sent all of them to find the Urn of Sacred Ashes, a relic believed to hold Andraste's ashes," he answered with an edge to his tone. "Only three of the knights have returned, and none with word of an urn's location. I fear the others met with some ill fate on this fool's errand."

"Not a strict Andrastian?" I smiled.

"Not a superstitious man," he responded. "The arlessa is a devout woman and she believes the ashes will cure Eamon. Personally, I don't believe in the legend, but I was in no position to stop her from leaving Eamon and the castle virtually defenseless." His brow had creased with consternation.

"About the attacks on the village," I prompted, changing the subject. "From what you've told me, these are definitely not darkspawn. I would have been able to sense them." Something entirely different was assaulting the village, but he still hadn't explained those walking corpses. "Tell me about the creatures themselves."

He spread his hands in bewilderment. "If I had to venture a guess, I would say they were the dead raised to life, and set upon us for our destruction," he said. "They surely look like corpses, and they are single-minded in their purpose to kill us to the last man, woman, and child."

"Who else is in the castle besides the arl?"

"Eamon's wife Isolde, and my young nephew Connor. There were servants there, and I imagine some of them were killed and became walking corpses. I pray Isolde and Connor weren't among them. If they were, and if we've killed them…"

His expression was so pained I could feel his anxiety. It wouldn't have been prudent to point out that if his sister-in-law and nephew had been undead monsters, they were dead already, and putting them down for good was a mercy. I kept the thought to myself. "We're here to help. I promise we'll defeat these monsters," I assured him. "And we'll find a way to get to the castle. Trust me."

"You have my deepest gratitude," he said sincerely. "For your aid, and for your company. I didn't realize how badly I needed to get my mind off things." If it was enough to inspirit him, I didn't mind. On the contrary, I enjoyed talking with him. I wondered what he was like when things were normal. I quickly found out, because for the next few minutes we forgot the village, the monsters, and the peril, and we had a normal chat.

He continued, "If it weren't for you coming along when you did… You and your companions, I mean. Maker, I'm getting flustered. It's not often I find myself in the company of such a beautiful woman."

"You flatter me," I smiled. "But thank you all the same." Since he'd opened the door to personal discussion, I asked, "Do you have a family, Bann Teagan?"

"Me? You mean am I married? No. No I'm not. I haven't been fortunate enough to find someone like you." A slow flush crept into his already ruddy cheeks. "That's fact, not flattery. What of you, dear lady? Are you married?"

"Not me," I said. "I have yet to find a man who could tame me." What a strange turn the conversation had taken, but our banter was entertaining. Maybe breaking the tension was just what he needed… what I needed as well. I hadn't felt this cheered in a long time.

"Only a fool would want to change you by 'taming' you, as you say," he responded.

He was an attractive man. But I'd never been drawn to older men, and the last thing I needed in my life at this point was the complication of a romance—with anyone. "I think the mead has gone to our heads," I said, putting a halt to the foolishness before it went further.

"I like your explanation," he grinned. "My secret crush will remain a secret."

The repartee had extended beyond my comfort level. "If you'll excuse me, Bann Teagan—"

"Just Teagan, please."

"If you'll excuse me, Teagan, I'll go find my companions and see what kind of trouble they've gotten into."

His smile faded and his gaze was fixed elsewhere. "That man over there. The elf. Did you notice him earlier? I've never seen him before."

I looked around. A young elf, armed with a bow and with daggers, sat alone across the tavern. He wasn't drinking. He simply appeared to be waiting. For whom? Or what? The serving girl told us the elf had been there every day, all day, for weeks, having convinced the tavern owner to let him sleep in the attic for a goodly sum of gold. She found the elf suspicious and "creepy."

Teagan and I approached him. I put a foot on the bench next to him and leaned close enough to make him uncomfortable—a calculated move. "Berwick, is it? So tell me, Berwick, why someone with such impressive weapons would hole up in the tavern like a coward instead of fighting with the rest of the town? Are you a coward, Berwick?"

"What? Who are you? What business do you have with me? I don't bother anyone. Leave me be." There was a slight tremor in his voice. And he whined. I hated whining.

"You certainly sound like a coward. Doesn't he, Bann Teagan? A coward, or maybe a spy."

"A spy," Teagan nodded, enjoying my game of intimidate-the-creepy-elf. "Definitely."

"Look, I didn't bargain for this!" The elf broke so easily, I was almost embarrassed for him. "I was told to watch the castle for any changes, that's all. And then those… those _things_ started attacking and I couldn't leave. I'm not getting paid for all this trouble!"

He claimed an agent of Rendon Howe (now that was a familiar name, and an unsavory one) hired him to watch and report. Nothing more. I didn't care what he was supposed to do. He was an intruder, and possibly a danger to the arl. Worst of all, he was in the employ of the man who'd murdered Aiden's family. "Come with us," I said, gripping his arm while Teagan grabbed the other. Berwick didn't struggle, but he whined all the way out the door. We hustled him around the side of the tavern to the edge of the walkway. It ended in a long, sharp fall. The elf began to struggle.

"Don't do that," I murmured in his ear. "It'll only hurt more."

"What? What will hurt more? Do you intend to throw me off this hill to my death?" Berwick was sniveling by this time.

"No, I'm not that cruel," I cooed. "The fall might only maim you." With that, I sunk my dagger into his side, all the way to the hilt, piercing lung and heart. He died instantly. "_Now_ I'll throw you off." The dead weight was considerably harder to maneuver, but with Teagan's aid I got him over the edge. He landed in a thicket where he'd be found and eaten by wild animals, or vanish from memory. Either was fine with me.

"To the business at hand," Teagan said, leading the way back down to the village. He requested I speak with Murdock, the village mayor, and Ser Perth, Arl Eamon's senior knight. "They will be able to give you the most help outside. I'll stay in the chantry to protect the citizens, unless I'm needed outside. I'm at your disposal, whatever you wish."

"I'd prefer you remain with them," I said. "I'm sure your presence is a comfort to them, and we don't want anyone to panic and open the doors once the attack starts. Should that happen, I need a capable fighter inside to defend them until we can get in."

"I saw you cozying up to Bann Teagan," Alistair teased. "With a village to protect, the two of you saw fit to go have a drink."

"You're jealous," I shot back facetiously. "But don't be. The mead here is watered down."

"What? His meadery makes the finest mead I've ever tasted! Not that I've tasted any other…"

"He owns a meadery? I like him more already."

"He's bann of Rainesfere," Alistair said, and stopped at that, as if I knew where Rainesfere was and what made it so special. Aside from its charming bann.

"Rainesfere," I repeated. "And the significance of that is…?"

"Of course, sorry, I forgot you're not from Ferelden. Not that your accent isn't a dead giveaway," he said, having to put a humorous spin on everything. "Rainesfere is a small bannorn to the northwest, along the lake. It has the most incredible apple orchards and the best mead in the country. Teagan's meaderies supply his unique apple-honey mead to all the taverns across Ferelden."

"When this is over, we should drop in on him and swim in his mead vats," I suggested. Alistair thought it was a fine idea.

With the approach of nightfall, Leliana and I helped herd the non-fighting villagers into the chantry. When everyone was safely inside, Teagan asked again if he was needed in the square. "No, please stay with the people. I need you right where you are."

"As you wish," he replied. He touched my shoulder to halt me as I turned to join the fighters. "Do be careful, Winter. I would hate to see you come to harm."

"I'll be fine," I assured him, "and Maker willing, we'll put an end to these attacks once and for all." He nodded his appreciation and shut the doors.

"He likes you," Leliana observed coyly. I didn't respond to her unwelcome comment.

* * *

Chapter 2, Part 2 – Every Little Thing He Does is Magic

When Teagan predicted this night would be the worst, he wasn't exaggerating. The monsters were armed with maces and longswords, and they wielded them with fiendish accuracy. Hour after hour we battled them. There seemed to be an endless supply of the undead coming from the castle. They were just as Teagan had described them—walking corpses. Some wore the uniform of housemaids, others were townsfolk, still others were castle guards. My party and I had a few close scrapes.

I felt most alive when I was in mortal danger. Maybe Duncan had been right after all—since I felt I had nothing left to lose, I gave my all in battle. I thought I'd always been that way because I loved fighting, but truthfully, I was different now. I took more risks and used less common sense than I had when I was in Starkhaven. My strategy back then was equally defensive and offensive; now it leaned much more toward offense. The goal was to take down a target before they had a chance to wound me. The reality was that I was often reckless with my life. If that made me a better fighter, so be it. If I came off as cocky, it wasn't my intent, but I couldn't let people's opinions of me change what I did and how I performed.

In my disregard for my own life, I was like Sten. He swung his greatsword with his immense strength, mowing down two or three of the monsters in a single swipe. Many times they rose again, receiving for their troubles another, deadlier blow. The town square was strewn with—what shall I call them—dead undead, hewn in half, beheaded, or pierced with multiple arrows.

Leliana fired off arrows as rapidly as she could, and her aim was precise. One had to admire her fortitude. She fought relentlessly, even when her fingers bled through her gloves from the pressure she exerted on her bowstring. Alistair employed his shield to bash the creatures to the ground, then ran them through or beheaded them with his longsword. I fought with two swords. With one sword I'd skewer a monster, with the other I'd behead them. Or I'd do a dual sweep, crossing the blades over an opponent's neck and sweeping outward, lopping off their heads. Either way, heads were rolling about by our feet. Because the things were already dead, there was almost no blood on our weapons. What little there was smelled like rotten eggs, different from darkspawn blood, but not like human blood either.

At dawn, the last of them fell to our swords and arrows, and we were fortunate enough to suffer no losses. The townsfolk were informed it was safe to leave the chantry. They would suffer no more monster attacks because we intended to get to the cause of the problem. Teagan asked us to meet him at the top of the hill by the windmill, which was near the castle gates.

When we reached the windmill, Teagan handed me his signet ring. Alistair quipped, "Isn't this a little sudden, you two? You've just met."

Teagan chuckled. "As tempting as it sounds, this isn't a proposal. My signet ring opens a secret passage to the castle. You can access it through the windmill."

"Teagan! Oh Teagan, thank the Maker you're alive!" A hysterical female with an Orlesian accent came running into our midst. The arlessa, no doubt. She ignored us and focused on Teagan. I had a fleeting mental image of a bird of prey.

"Isolde, how did you get out of the castle? Is everyone alright? How is Eamon? Where is Connor?" Teagan shot questions at her faster than she could form a reply.

"Teagan I need your help," she answered, not answering anything he'd asked her. "I need you to come back to the castle with me right away."

"Why does Teagan have to go with you?" I asked.

She turned and gave me a cold look. "Who might you be, and what business is it of yours?"

Teagan stepped in and told her, "Isolde, these are my friends. They saved us. We owe them more courtesy than that."

"Why does he have to go with you?" I repeated, more firmly this time. "To the void with your courtesy; I think you owe us some kind of explanation."

"How dare you!" she snapped. "Who do you think you are to talk to me in that manner?"

"I think I might be the one who will save your life if you stop acting like a spoiled child and show a little cooperation," I sassed right back. Her title didn't matter to me one bit. She needed _us_; we didn't need her. "What's going on at the castle?"

"My husband is very ill," she wailed. "Now my son is acting strangely. And the creatures… I don't know where they came from or why they're attacking the village, but…" she turned to Teagan again, "…you need to come now. Now!"

"I will come with you, but I need to speak to my friends for a moment first," Teagan said.

Her relief was so obvious I thought she was going to pee herself and ruin that expensive silk dress. "Thank you Teagan. Please hurry." And off she went to wait for him by the gates.

"Are you sure this is wise?" I asked, knowing full well it _wasn't_ wise for him to go alone with that uppity kook.

"No, I'm not sure of anything, but I must get to my brother," Teagan replied. "Once I'm gone, if you're still of a mind to help, use my signet ring and get into the castle."

"We'll be there, and we'll find out who's causing the monsters and stop them," I promised.

"As courageous as you are beautiful," he smiled. "If things were different… But no matter. I'll try to learn all I can before you arrive."

The signet ring fit into a small lock, and a trap door opened to a narrow passage that widened into the castle's dungeon. There was a mage incarcerated in one of the cells.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," I answered. "By the looks of things, you're not a welcome guest of the arl."

"My name is Jowan," he answered. "Lady Isolde hired me to tutor her son."

Alistair spoke up. "Connor? Connor's a _mage_?"

"Yes," Jowan nodded. "Lady Isolde didn't want him sent to the tower, so she hired me to teach him just enough to be able to hide his abilities."

"That's hardly reason to lock you in the dungeon," I said. "What aren't you telling us?"

He answered miserably, "I poisoned the arl."

"Why?" I couldn't believe he just spit out the admission without prodding, but now I needed to know more.

"I can't say. If I speak of it, I'll be killed."

"If you don't tell me, I'll kill you myself," I threatened. "What did you give him? Can you reverse it?"

"No. The poison was of my own make and it has no antidote. It's slow but definitely lethal. I purposely designed it to look like an illness so no one would suspect poison." He paused. "Although… it's taking a lot longer than it should. He should have died within a few days."

"What else have you done?" I asked, my patience running out for this idiot. "What about the creatures that attacked the village? What's the story behind those?"

He shook his head and vehemently denied any involvement with the creatures. "I only poisoned the arl. I didn't have anything to do with the creatures." He moved closer to the bars. "Please, I feel badly for what I've done. Let me go with you and try to help. I know some blood magic…"

"Absolutely not!" Alistair interjected before I could reply. My response would have been similar. "You've already done enough harm. I'll cut you down before I let you near the arl again."

The mage seemed sincere in his desire to help, but I didn't trust him. I wasn't familiar enough with mages to know if they used any kind of mind control, but this man had already admitted to attempted murder, and that sealed it for me. Leliana wanted him to come with us; Sten wanted him killed on the spot. I decided to leave him where he was for now, tend to the arl, and let someone else decide the mage's fate. We proceeded upstairs and into the castle.

We were greeted by a startling sight. Teagan was doing what I could only describe as a carnival performance. A boy of about ten years was egging him on with skin-crawling, fiendish delight. Isolde looked on, close to tears, begging the boy to stop and to release Teagan. The boy was obviously possessed by some sort of spirit.

I was out of my element, but Alistair recognized the thing as a demon. His templar skills included the ability to detect and dispel some magic, but the demon was too powerful. He couldn't stop or impede its evil games, and none of us knew how to rid the boy of the thing. We discussed our options—kill the boy or send for the mage to see if he could do anything—and were interrupted when the demon set Teagan and the castle guards on us.

I didn't want to see Teagan hurt, but he'd drawn his sword and meant to kill me. I dueled with him while the rest of my team dealt with the possessed guards. He was either more skilled than he'd let on or the demon had enhanced his abilities, because he fought with uncanny proficiency. If I hadn't been determined not to wound him, I might have been able to best him more quickly. My caution was a hindrance and he almost got the best of me, slashing at my midsection to gut me. I sidestepped and avoided the killing blow but received a deep slash in my upper arm. Evading that blade became my main concern. At the right moment I swept his legs from under him and struck him on the head with my pommel, knocking him unconscious. When he fell, all the knights fell with him and the fight ended.

Alistair tended to my wound while Leliana opened the castle doors and the courtyard gate to let the knights in. They had been waiting for us to give them access but there hadn't been time until now. Pity, because we could have used their assistance. They were tough, fearless fighters.

When Isolde saw Teagan sprawled out on the floor, she jumped to her feet and railed at me for killing him. "He's not dead," I snapped at her. I'd had enough of this stupid woman's interference. Knowing what we did now—that she was aware of her son's magic and she'd hired an apostate to tutor him, and that he'd poisoned the arl—I trusted her less than the mage. At least he openly admitted his guilt. She was still playing the victim.

Teagan stirred, and she ran to his side to help him up. "Oh Teagan, I thought she had killed you. I would have thrown her in the dungeon—"

"Enough, Isolde," Teagan cut her off. He said to me, "Thank you for stopping me. I had no control. I'm sorry."

"I understand, and no harm done," I said. From here on, the less I said to Isolde, the less chance there would be of me knocking _her_ out next.

"You're wounded," he said, and immediately began to apologize again. "Maker, what have I done? I'm sorry, Winter. After all you've done to help…"

"Stop. Please. There are more important things for us to talk about than a scratch on my arm." It was more than a scratch and it hurt like hell, but I wasn't going to make him feel any worse than he already did. I didn't blame anyone but the demon. And Isolde.

"This needs stitches," Alistair announced. "I can stem the bleeding for a while, but you won't be able to move your arm without opening the wound again."

Stitches. I shuddered. Nothing else about fighting and swordplay bothered me, but having a needle slowly, repeatedly run through my flesh and dragging a length of thread behind it was my idea of torture. Truth be told, needles were my one phobia. "Are you sure? Can't you just bandage it tightly and… and I'll…"

"And you'll eventually bleed out," he finished. A mischievous glint lit his eyes. "What's all this? Our fearless leader isn't so fearless when it comes to needles?" He noted my apprehension and added, on a more sympathetic note, "Can't say I blame you. Don't worry; I've been trained in patching up battle wounds." He reached into his pack and pulled out a small bundle, unwrapped it, and produced a wicked-looking curved needle and a foot or so of thick black thread. "Sorry, I don't have pretty colors for ladies."

"I don't think that would make it any easier," I groused. Like it or not, he was right—the wound was deep and it needed to be closed. Better to endure stitches than cauterization, right?

Teagan apologized again, needlessly. It was too much to handle at once—having my arm skewered and sewn like a blanket, holding my irrational terror in check, dealing with Teagan's regret—and I tried to mentally shut everything out. If I concentrated on something pleasant, this would all be over quickly. The first jab of the needle put an end to that idea. I jumped, and the needle went deeper than Alistair intended.

"I'm sorry, Winter, but this is necessary," he said with compassion and, for a change, no humor this time. "You'll have to hold still."

Teagan assisted the gory project, mopping away the blood so Alistair could see where to place the next stitch. Isolde watched from across the room, scowling, resentful she wasn't getting all the attention. Seeing her pout and fume gave me a sense of satisfaction, as petty as it may have been. She was an attractive bitch, and the men of this castle were blind to her manipulations. She was Eamon's wife, but she was oddly possessive of Teagan, and she vilified anyone who took a step inside her domain. It made me determined to trample all over it before I was done. She'd forgotten her place as a person who received her title by marriage and not by birth.

I glanced up at Teagan and was met by his pained eyes. His "I'm sorry's" oozed from every pore. "It's alright," I reassured him. "I have the Grey Wardens' best healer caring for my wound." A little humor couldn't hurt. The needle did. That damned needle.

Sten was becoming impatient, as usual. He grumbled about human weaknesses and inability to handle pain and injury. And I called myself a warrior? There was an archdemon to kill, he reminded us. We didn't have time for pampering and recuperation.

"In good time," I said through clenched teeth as the needle bored into my flesh and out again, dragging the thread behind it. Adding injury to Sten's insult. The process seemed to go on for hours.

Alistair looked up from his work of tormenting me, allowing me a much-needed pause from the sewing. "Almost done," he said. He smiled to bolster my nerve, and the smile held none of his usual playfulness. It was completely sincere, and I have to say, he never looked as appealing as he did in that moment. He was just Alistair, without the jokes, without the nonsense. I smiled back to express my appreciation for his kindness. It was easier than trying to talk. He added, "Just a couple more, and you'll be good as new. With a brand new, ugly, jagged scar to show off to your friends. You'll be the envy of everyone at camp." His serious moment had passed.

"Thanks for that," I replied dryly. "I'll be sure to give you due credit for the scar."

Stitch work complete, he bandaged the wound and pronounced me fit for duty. "Light duty," he emphasized. "If you insist on swinging swords, you'll have to do it one-handed for a while." All things considered, it could have been much worse. Sten could have been using the needle on me.

I was ready to get back to business. "We need to deal with the demon. I can only assume Isolde knew about it all along, since she knew about Connor's magic."

Teagan looked at Isolde like he was seeing an intruder in the house. "What's this? Connor's a mage? You knew this and didn't tell anyone? You endangered an entire village? Why? How could you be so selfish?"

"They would have taken him away," she wailed. "I had to protect my son, so I hired a mage to teach him how to hide his magic, so no one would know of it."

"Eamon wouldn't…" Teagan began, then realization hit him. "Eamon doesn't know, does he?"

"No, I kept it from him." Isolde wasted no time turning the blame from herself to another. "He fell ill soon after the mage arrived. I think… I think maybe the mage has hurt my family."

_How do you make your voice tremble at will_, I wondered. _Unkind, yes. But the situation is a tangle of deception. How involved are you? Or are you at the core of it, Arlessa?_

Teagan demanded, "Where is this mage? Is he yet alive?"

I shelved my suspicions for the time being and spoke up. "He's in the dungeon. He's alive, for now. He has admitted to poisoning the arl, but refuses to say why he did it."

"Can he help Connor and Eamon? Did he say why he sent the creatures against the village?"

I related what the mage had told me about the poison, and finished with, "He insists he knew nothing about the creatures until he saw them in the dungeon corridor."

"He lies! Bring him, Teagan," Isolde begged. "He can help my Connor."

"And your husband?" I supplied.

"Of course. And my husband."

Teagan left us to fetch Jowan, and I consulted with my companions, leaving Isolde to think up more trickery. I asked Alistair, "What can we do about Connor? I've never dealt with demonic possession before."

Alistair shook his head sadly. "The boy is an abomination. Only one thing can be done with him."

Sten agreed with Alistair, and volunteered to end the boy's suffering quickly.

"Not yet," I said. I didn't want the boy killed unless there was no other alternative. "Let's see what the mage has to say. Maybe something can be done to drive the demon out of him."

Isolde's eyes were fixed on Jowan when he was brought in. She didn't speak to him verbally, but her stare conveyed some kind of private message to the mage. He cowered before her. I wasn't sure if any of the others noticed the change in our hostess, but something had happened between these two that was more than the usual employer-employee relationship. What it was, I didn't know for certain, but I had some thoughts on the nature of their connection.

Isolde snarled at Jowan. "Whatever you've done to my son, I want you to reverse it this instant." I noticed she didn't mention what he'd done to her husband. Twice she'd neglected to include him, as if she'd written him off while he still lived. Was she aware the poison had no cure?

"I did nothing to Connor, I swear," Jowan insisted.

"But you admitted you're a blood mage," Alistair reminded him. "That's an open door for demons."

"I… No, I wouldn't hurt Connor," Jowan stammered. "I don't consort with demons."

"You fool," Alistair rejoined. "You can't do blood magic without the help of demons."

"Tell me what can be done for Connor," I interjected. "How can we rid him of the demon?"

Jowan explained that there were two methods. Either kill Connor outright, or kill the demon in the Fade. The second method was trickier, and we lacked the means to perform the ritual: a quantity of lyrium and several mages. Or a human sacrifice for his blood ritual.

"No, that's not an option," I insisted. "There's a better way, but it will take time. We'll have to go to the tower and bring back some mages to perform the exorcism."

"Connor doesn't have that much time," Isolde moaned. "Please, use me as the sacrifice."

Teagan and Alistair refused her request in unison. I agreed with them with only a touch of reluctance, and the mage was sent back to the dungeon to await his sentence.

"The tower is a long hike from here," Teagan said. "Please, if you would, take some of Eamon's horses and get there and back as quickly as you can."

"We'll return with help as soon as possible." I had no idea what the next few days held in store for me when I made that promise.


	3. Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

A Game of Thorns, Chapter 4 – "Sweet Dreams Are Made of This"

Part 1 – Crow in Sheep's Clothing

As soon as we were out of the arling and on the road to the mage's tower, we came upon a traveler in distress. She claimed her caravan had been ambushed and there were injured people in her party. When we went to help, there was indeed and ambush—for us. The leader of the crew was a well-dressed, blonde elvish man who, frankly, appeared more of a popinjay than a fighter. He gave a signal and several archers stepped out from behind bushes and boulders. At his command, which was basically, "Kill the Grey Warden," they set upon us.

I went for him first. If I took him out, the rest of the band might be less inclined to keep up the fight. Fighting one-handed, I still defeated him easily, and left him unconscious but not dead. His fellows didn't back down, so we had to kill them all. The leader began to stir, and I kicked him in the ribs, none to gently, to bring him fully conscious.

"Ohhh…" he groaned. "I thought I was dead."

"You should be, with your laughable fighting style. If being alive is a problem for you, I can easily take care of it for you," I answered.

"No, no, this is fine. Living is not a problem for me. But since you let me live, what do you plan to do with me, dear lady of Starkhaven?"

My accent gave me away again. _His_ accent was distinctly Antivan. "Who put you up to this? Since you know I'm a Grey Warden, this was no random ambush."

He told me everything, which I found strange for a hired assassin. Loghain had hired him to kill me and any Grey Wardens he found. He was an Antivan Crow, he claimed. His name was Zevran. "Zev, to my friends."

"The famed assassin guild?" I laughed. "_You're_ a Crow? They must have sent a rookie to do a pro's job."

"You wound me with your insult," he pouted. There was something childlike and amusing about him. "Your tongue is sharper than your blade. I take it you don't have many friends, yes?"

"The ones I have are loyal, and that's what matters."

Alistair was growing antsy. "Why are we wasting time with this fellow? I say we kill him."

The Antivan spoke up. "If I may speak, I have a better suggestion."

"Make it quick," I said. He wanted to travel and live with us as a member of our party, giving me his services in exchange for his life. "Your services, so far, haven't been impressive. And why would I want to take an assassin into my camp?"

He had answers for everything. As I listened to him chatter, I realized he wasn't the cold-blooded killer he pretended to be. His skills were amateurish at best, but he was crazy enough to take us on for a few sovereigns. Having failed to kill us, he forfeited his fee and the Crows would be obliged to kill him. "That is how the system works. You kill, and you live well. But if you fail once, you are dead."

"Maybe you should have become a tradesman instead of trying to be an assassin," I said. In spite of the fact that he'd just tried to butcher us for profit, I felt rather sorry for the fellow. Possibly not my brightest moment…

"Truth be told, I wasn't given the choice. But what say you? Will you allow me to lay down my life in place of yours, if need be?"

"Having seen what the Crows are capable of, I don't think I'll be employing you as a bodyguard," I answered, "but I'm in need of skilled fighters. I want to stress, _skilled_ fighters. If I take you along, you'll have to work on your fighting."

"_What_?" Alistair was stunned at my decision. "You're taking the assassin with us?"

"We need all the help we can get," I reminded him. "And he'll have ample opportunity to hone his skills if he travels with us. Like, in the Deep Roads, for example. Plenty of practice there."

"Yes, and plenty of opportunities to slit our throats while we sleep."

"He won't do that," I assured him. "We have Shale and Sten on watch, and if you like, I can put his tent between the two of them. Either would be more than delighted to kill him if he steps out of line." I said that more for Zevran's benefit that to comfort Alistair. Sten loomed over the elf with a steely, menacing glare. I think he was hoping the elf would dare try something.

"Alright, if that's what you really want," Alistair said reluctantly. "But I think this is a bad idea."

"Shall I take him back to camp?" Leliana offered.

"No, not without me or Alistair being there," I answered. I would take him in, but I wanted him where I could watch him until he'd proven himself. "But I do want _you_ to go back, Leliana. Take the shortcut, and don't let anyone follow you or see which direction you're going." Accepting an assassin into our camp was one thing. Letting every assassin know where we slept was another.

The rest of us, with our newest member walking between Alistair and Sten so we could keep an eye on him, continued on to the mages' tower.

Chapter 4, Part 2 – Dreamboat Annie

"Sorry, lady, the knight-commander has closed the tower," the young templar said importantly. "Nobody in or out."

"First off, you can refer to me as 'Warden'. Secondly, I'm going to the tower if I have to knock you out and take the boat," I said. "Now either bring us across or step aside." I wasn't sure if it was my threat or Sten's deadly cold stare, but the boy changed his mind in a hurry.

"Alright, alright, I'll take you over."

The tower was under lockdown. Their most powerful mage, Uldred, had turned to blood magic. He and his fellow blood mages had summoned a small army of demons, which had killed or enchanted templars for sport. Knight-Commander Greagor had sent for a Right of Annulment. If it arrived from Denerim before we could do something to stop the rogue mages, the tower and everyone in it would be destroyed, and there would be no help for Connor or assistance against the darkspawn.

Greagor gave us access to the tower on the condition that we would be locked in, and not allowed out until we brought back First Enchanter Irving—dead or alive. If he were dead, the tower was already lost and would be destroyed. We agreed to his terms, and we passed through the iron doors that separated the entrance hall from the rest of the tower. The sound of the doors shutting and locking behind us was unnaturally loud.

"I didn't want to burst their bubble," Alistiar spoke up, "but iron doors won't keep out demons. Nothing will, if they take a notion to leave the tower. Nothing short of death, that is."

"Then we'll give them death," I shrugged. "But first we have to find them."

I remembered seeing the old woman at Ostagar. She and a group of young mages were hiding in a large room just inside the iron doors, and a magical barrier was all that separated them from the horrors deeper in the tower. On the other side of the barrier, something that appeared to be a living column of fire roared and threatened them.

_And I thought I'd seen everything when we faced the undead at Redcliffe…_

Alistair's eyes narrowed to slits. He was in full templar mode.

Sten snarled and held his greatsword at the ready, should the demon cross the barrier.

Zevran gaped, but not fearfully. It was closer to awe.

And I said, "Andraste's pale dimpled ass! What _is_ that thing?"

"A rage demon," the elder mage supplied, eyeing me with disapproval because of my offensive language. Her name was Wynne, and she was the senior mage, second to the first enchanter. "Senior" was putting it politely. She looked as old as Flemeth, but not as haggard. She noticed my injury. "Come, Warden. I can heal you." And she did, by waving her staff and sending a blue ball of light toward me. My arm warmed briefly, then tingled when the flesh knit together. Now _that_ was a skill we could use.

As it turned out, healing was Wynne's only real skill. Her main offensive weapon was a nature spell that affected mortal beings but to which demons were immune. She was a worse fighter than Zevran. He wasn't highly skilled but he was eager to improve. He fancied himself a great assassin, with a fascination for murder and death. (Small wonder he always poisoned his marks. He may have been weak in melee, but he could brew up a mean poison.) It didn't take a great deal of skill to swing a blade against unarmed spirits. Avoiding their spells was trickier.

"Well, let's have this done, shall we?" I prompted. "Lower the barrier."

We encountered demons and beings I'd never imagined existed. Some fell easily before our blades, others almost bested us. There were more flaming rage demons, things called arcane horrors that slashed at us with sharp claws and hurled potentially lethal spells at us; hideous, malformed abominations attacked with spells and with physical attacks, walking skeletons armed with swords appeared out of nowhere, and things that looked like bears with spines covering their bodies jumped out from doorways. And that was only the first two floors of the tower. Thus far, we hadn't found a single living mage, and only a couple of corpses.

I still took every opportunity to collect items that might be of value later, one of which would be of interest to Morrigan: her mother's grimoire. Since Flemeth was a known witch and Morrigan had never been inside a mage's circle in her life, I wondered how the book came to be in the First Enchanter's office. Something wasn't right… to state the painfully obvious.

"Alistair," I whispered when we entered the third floor. "There are templars here."

"I know," he said sadly. "They're possessed. We'll have to kill them."

"Is there no way to break the enchantment?"

"None. They're completely insane by now."

The first of them attacked us with deadly intent, and with skill that rivaled Alistair's. Singly, we defeated them with relative ease. But when we ran across five or six at a time, we were literally fighting for our lives. As Alistair had told me, templars were an army, not mere guards. I witnessed firsthand how true that was.

Room by room, we went through the tower searching for survivors and for mages who hadn't been turned and who could help us. We found neither. In the central room of the fourth floor, we encountered a powerful being who claimed to rule the tower, but then, all of them made that boast. This one went by the name of Sloth. Its slow drawl had an undertone, as if two or more voices of different timbre were speaking in unison. That wasn't bad enough, evidently. It also sounded like its teeth were slipping out whenever it spoke.

Sloth had a nasty little surprise for us. First it tried to convince us that it was time to put down our weapons and rest. (Hence its name Sloth, I imagined.) When we refused, it hindered our efforts to secure the tower by flinging us into the Fade, separate from each other. Alone and in a strange place, my personal nightmare began.

My surroundings appeared to shift in and out of focus before settling into distinct shapes. Objects were solid to the touch. My weapons felt as tangible and heavy as they did at any other time. If this was a dream realm, as I'd always believed the Fade to be, it was disturbingly real.

I'd been transported to a long portico. Ahead of me were stairs leading up to a high porch, and there, waiting to greet me, stood Duncan. He was flanked by two other wardens.

He looked like the real Duncan. He wore the same clothes and carried the same weapons. Was he a hallucination, someone I wanted to see because his presence gave me courage? Or was he an impostor, a trick of the Fade? "What are you doing here?" I asked him. "You died at Ostagar."

"Dead?" he laughed. "No my dear, I'm very much alive and well. I've come to guide you to your quarters in the wardens' new fortress in Orlais. Isn't it grand?"

"So that's were we are," I commented, full of suspicion now. "I thought we were in the Fade."

"You thought we were _where_?" The jovial Duncan-lookalike laughed again.

"Warden-Commander," I began, using the title he eschewed, "shouldn't you and these wardens be helping us fight the darkspawn? The king is counting on us."

He didn't react to being called by his official title, as he'd done with Aiden. Duncan always insisted on being called by his first name, by everyone. I never knew his surname, and I don't believe Alistair did either. He'd been a modest, unassuming man in life. This small indication of pride confirmed what I suspected—this creature was probably a demon.

"That title was never bestowed upon me, as you are aware," he scowled.

_(I wasn't aware of it before, but I am now. The real Duncan cared nothing for titles, prestige, or recognition. Is that a touch of anger in your tone, Senior Warden? I seem to have hit a nerve.) _

He continued, "The king was victorious. We put an end to the blight and we've been at peace for some time. Don't you remember? Come with me, and I'll take you to your quarters so you can rest after your journey." He was all smiles once more.

Rest. That was just what the Sloth demon wanted me to do. I'd learned from Jowan that spirits could possess or manipulate susceptible people in the Fade in their sleep. If I gave in, I would make myself susceptible—in effect, I would be giving the spirit permission to control me. This person, or this thing, was not the Duncan I'd known.

"You know what?" I said, matching his jocular tone. "I think you're a demon and you need to die."

He changed instantly, from friendly, persuasive mentor to menacing foe. "I guess people like you only understand death. If that's what you wish, you shall have it." He pulled his dagger from its sheath.

The demon mimicked Duncan's look and voice, but it couldn't duplicate his swordsmanship. It fell to my feet, dead, with a single blow. His fellows, armed with bows, pulled arrows from their quivers to fire upon me. They too were unskilled, easy opponents. The worst part about the apparition was that it looked and sounded so much like Duncan that it saddened me, making me feel I had murdered my leader. I reminded myself that it was a demon, and guilt was exactly what it wanted me to feel. I shook off the pangs of conscience and proceeded.

I passed through a portal and entered a zone that was occupied by darkspawn. Many of them were aflame but not injured by it. I fought groups of them, sometimes six to eight at a time. The area looked like city streets lined with buildings, but few of the buildings had doors. The streets turned and curved, and around each bend or corner was a group of waiting darkspawn. I was a bloodied mess by the time I reached the place where all the streets converged. In the crossway was an ornate building with a single door. At my approach, the door opened. I hesitated. It was either a deadly attack or a way out. I saw no other way out, so I gathered my courage and went inside. As I passed through the portal, the blood on my clothes and skin evaporated.

I recognized him before he turned around. The blonde hair, the athletic build, the armor that looked like brushed gold accented with polished onyx. It was King Cailan, or something that had adopted his appearance. He or it turned at my approach.

"You're the new Grey Warden," he smiled. "From Starkhaven."

Maker help me, it sounded exactly like him, right down to the inflection and accent.

"Yes, Your Majesty," I answered. I wanted to burst into tears. I felt like a complete fool, talking to an apparition and wanting to cry about it. Every unkind thought I'd had about him returned to mock me. The hateful way I'd spoken to him…

"…doesn't matter," he finished. "You weren't quite right about me, but you weren't far wrong."

"How did you know…"

"…what you were thinking?" He furrowed his brow. "I… sense things. Regret. Shame. Grief." He waved a hand as if to wipe away the bad feelings, and to a degree, the sensation of remorse was lessened. He continued, "I don't have much time here, so please listen to me, Warden. Ferelden is in danger of being wiped out. The land cannot fall to the archdemon. You must fight. You. Aiden. Alistair…" His voice grew fainter with each name. "Alistair…" he repeated, his voice scarcely a whisper, and his eyes reflected sorrow. His mouth formed another name or a word, but it was inaudible. And as the sound dissipated, so did the vision of Cailan.

I'd encountered nothing but evil so far in the Fade. Why Cailan, and why here? He wasn't an evil man. If that was a spirit impersonating him, it said exactly what Cailan would have said. Ferelden _was_ in extreme danger. If we wardens didn't gather an army, the blight would consume the land. But… what was it about Alistair that disturbed him? Was he finally acknowledging his sibling now, in death? Regretting the years he'd ignored him? Or… Maker forbid… was Alistair in greater danger than the rest of us?

"You can't leave now! You have to tell me what you meant! _Calian!_"

I was alone in the room, and my shouts didn't produce so much as an echo. The sound of them was absorbed in to nothingness. There was a door I hadn't seen before, or maybe it formed when Cailan vanished. Behind me, the door through which I'd entered the building was gone. The streets were gone. Everything was blank, like a canvas. There was only the door, and whatever lay beyond it.

I would need volumes to try to explain all that happened during the time I was in the Fade. Most of it defied description. And you probably wouldn't believe it even if I _could_ put it into words. If I hadn't experienced it for myself, I certainly wouldn't have believed it. I'll summarize: The hours felt like days. I fought battle after battle, against demons and spirits and undead minions, and by some unfathomable miracle, I came out of it without a scratch or a bruise.

With the guidance of a mage named Niall, I was able to locate my companions. I can't call Niall a survivor, because Sloth had trapped him and was sapping his life energy to run this extravagant funhouse. By the time I happened upon him he was almost dead. He warned me that once his life energy was depleted, my companions and I would be the next ones to fuel the demons' evil games. They didn't need us to exist, mind you. Mortals were cheap, disposable toys.

"So it isn't blood magic behind all this chaos?" I asked.

"Uldred's magic is blood magic," he replied. "But Sloth and the other spirits feed on our essence, or on our emotions, not on blood. I have no time to explain it. You must gather your friends and deal with Sloth quickly. Now!"

It seemed I'd been the only one fighting during this nightmare. Alistair, Sten, Zevran, and Wynne were experiencing things they would have expected to see in real life. Sten was aware that his setting and companions were illusions. The others were taken in; even Wynne who claimed to have "an affinity for the Fade" didn't recognize it when she saw it.

Once reunited, we again faced Sloth, this time in battle. He tried to instill fear in us, but he was covering for his weakness to sharp blades. Zevran had evidently picked up some new moves during his stay in the Fade, or his anger at being duped worked in his favor, because he whirled and slashed like… well, like a man possessed. We left Sloth in a smoking heap. When the demon died, we were popped back into the real world, just like suddenly awakening from a dream. But Sloth still smoldered at our feet, and to my regret, Niall lay dead near him.

We prepared to face Uldred, the idiot who'd put this entire disaster in motion with his blood magic. Four mages who hadn't turned were trapped in the tower's upper chamber, the "harrowing chamber," with Uldred. At the foot of the stairs leading to the chamber, a templar was held captive in a magic cage.

_What are they keeping him for? A snack?_ I thought, somewhat callously. The poor fellow was traumatized. And he was a good man. He'd seen all of his fellow templars abused, humiliated, and killed by blood mages in the past days. All he had left was a seething hatred for mages and magic, and I can't say I blamed him. I just couldn't wipe out the survivors like he wanted. But I digress.

Uldred was more powerful than Sloth by far. He took on the shape of a huge, grotesque pride demon—a fitting guise, since Uldred was full of self-importance. The surviving mages were scattered about the chamber. Guarding each mage was one or two of Uldred's converts, which had traded their human form for that of an abomination. At Uldred's command, they joined in the fight. He sacrificed each of his former students, former friends, to save his worthless life. When their numbers thinned, he forced another mage to turn and take their place.

Wynne finally found her reserve of righteous anger, and she blasted Uldred with a fireball that rivaled anything Morrigan had done so far. Impressive. The demon-mage staggered, and we blade-wielders took the opportunity to carve some lethal gashes in his tough hide. Greenish blood oozed from his body, and the room stank of decomposing flesh.

"Wynne! Fry that thing!" I called to her. She released a steady stream of flame from her staff. Uldred's skin began to bubble. The beast let out a long, loud bellow. Careful to avoid the fire, we kept stabbing and slashing until it fell. When it was done, two mages remained. One was First Enchanter Irving. We got him down to Greagor as quickly as his age and injuries would permit.

"First Enchanter, I have need of mages…" I began.

"Yes, of course. The blight."

"Yes, there's that. But there's a boy in Redcliffe who's been possessed by a demon in the Fade. A mage, Jowan, told us that…"

"Jowan?" Irving interrupted. "Jowan! What is _he_ doing there? No wonder there's trouble. Take me to Redcliffe at once."

_Well, that was easy. I thought he would need some convincing. Or at least a nap._

Irving rode with me on my horse. His weight couldn't have caused the animal much discomfort, because the old mage looked like he was at death's door from starvation. Wynne rode with Zevran, and the two of them provided me with entertainment on the trip back to the castle. I wasn't particularly fond of Wynne but I almost felt sorry for her. Zevran turned on the charm, which wasn't as charming as he believed. Wynne was insulted by the sexual innuendo, his unwelcome observation of her anatomy, and his not-so-accidental roaming hands. Sten found him irritating and asked me if he could kill him. Alistair didn't like Zevran from the start, and he quickly wearied of the risqué banter. Before we reached Redcliffe Castle, he, too, asked me if he could kill Zev.

Things inside the castle were unchanged. The arl's condition had not improved, and Connor was still held by the demon. Irving looked in on Eamon, but whatever Jowan had done to him was beyond the First Enchanter's power to reverse. He muttered something about blood magic. If this _was_ a result of a blood spell, the arl likely had no chance of recovery.

"We don't have enough mages," he announced suddenly. "Blast it all to oblivion, we can't do this ritual with only two mages!"

"I hesitate to put this idea forward," I said, "but we are desperate. You can use Jowan, can't you?"

He responded with a snarl that would have made a bear envious. "Jowan! The blood mage! You would expect me to use a blood mage for this?"

"If it's the only way to save an innocent boy's life, yes," Alistair answered firmly. "I was a templar, First Enchanter, and I don't like blood mages any more than you do, but we have to consider the boy. Jowan won't be leaving this castle alive."

With that agreement between them, Jowan was brought up from the dungeon. The three mages went upstairs to the family quarters and performed their ritual in Connor's room. Alistair stood by to make sure Jowan didn't so much as scratch himself and draw blood. The mage was fully compliant, and he cowed before Irving like a whipped pup. I stayed downstairs with my other companions, Isolde, and Teagan. In short order, Connor was returned to his mother.

Isolde didn't utter a word of thanks, but Teagan was more gracious. "You put yourself in peril to save my brother's family," he commended me. "I cannot imagine what you dealt with in the tower, but you have my gratitude."

I wasn't completely happy with the outcome. Connor was free and had no memory of his possession—a blessing indeed. Isolde was spared being a human sacrifice, which was good for Eamon (I supposed). But Eamon was still comatose, and we were no closer to a cure than we were at the start.

"The ashes," Isolde said to Teagan. "They will cure him. Send the wardens to fetch them."

_How convenient! First the knights, now the wardens. Who else is expendable, Isolde? _I really, really didn't like that woman.

Teagan turned to me. "My friend, I have no right to impose upon your good graces again, but I do need your help. I'm a practical man and I don't believe in fables, but we've tried everything else and Eamon is still near death. What do you say? Would you be willing to search for this urn?"

I gave him my promise, "If it exists, then yes, I will find it." Brave words from someone who didn't think Andraste was anything more than a war hero.

"Eamon's knights started their search in Denerim," he said. "A chantry historian—Genetivi, I think his name was—might be able to direct you to the urn's location."

The capital city was far to our east, and it took four days on foot to reach it. To locate Genetivi's house, I inquired of one of the city's guards, a Sergeant Kylon. He not only directed us, but he told me there was a message for a Grey Warden named Winter. "I'm Winter," I said. "What's the message?"

"It's a letter, actually, and I left it with the barkeep at the Gnawed Noble," he answered, "right across the street from the Genetivi residence."

A letter. Who knew I was in Ferelden, much less that I would come to Denerim? Since it was so close Genetivi's house and wouldn't take long, I stopped by the tavern and got the letter from the barkeep. Alistair eyed it but didn't ask about it. He wanted to, and badly. I stuffed it into my pack to read later. We had a more pressing matter to tend to first.

Genetivi wasn't home. A search of the house turned up Genetivi's journal, books on dragon worship, and the body of a young man. The corpse couldn't have been Genetivi. By all accounts, the scholar was in his middle years. This poor sod was about twenty.

"Genetivi's son, maybe?" I mused.

"I don't think so," Alistair frowned. "This journal belongs to a '_Brother_ Genetivi.' He would have taken vows of celibacy."

"His assistant, then? One thing's certain. This man was murdered. He knew Genetivi was onto something, and someone else wanted him silenced."

"Why can't Teagan send us on simple, routine errands?" he grumbled. He held up the book on dragon worship. "This is sure to keep things from getting dull. Dragons. My favorite animal."

The scholar's notes directed us to a village in the Frostback Mountains called Haven. On the way, we stopped at camp for a night's rest. We made a tent for Zev between Alistair's and Aiden's. Now that he knew where we camped, we'd see if he would keep to his oath or betray us.

"An assassin?" Aiden laughed when he'd heard the story. "Loghain hired a Crow to kill us? I guess he has no faith in his own men." He watched Zevran go into his tent, then he confided to us, "He doesn't look very assassin-y, does he? He seems sort of… how would you put it… prissy."

"Hmm, I guess he is a little overdressed for his line of work," I agreed. I took another bite of the meat Aiden had roasted for our dinner. "What is this, by the way? It's not bad."

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

Alistair piped up, his words muffled by a mouthful of food. "If you told me you'd killed a genlock and put him on the spit, I'd still eat it. Winter doesn't believe in stopping for meals when she's on the march."

"We're here in camp, aren't we?" I pointed out. "You get a meal _and_ a night of rest." I finished my dinner and stood. Time for part two of my mini-vacation: a shower under the waterfall. With a full belly and clean skin, I'd sleep through almost anything. I grabbed a cloth that served as my towel and started for the falls.

"You gonna let another opportunity pass you by?" Aiden asked when Winter was out of earshot.

"What opportunity might that be?" Alistair responded.

"Her. The waterfall. You know."

"Wait. What? There's no 'you know' going on between us."

"And there never will be if you don't make a move."

"What makes you think I want to 'you know' with Winter, huh? Or if I did, who says she would want to 'you know' with me?"

Aiden shook his head in exasperation. "Forget I said anything. You're making a joke out of it, but you can't convince me that you haven't thought about it."

Alistair grew quiet. Yes, he thought about her a lot. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He'd grown fond of her, more so than he wanted to admit to himself. And naturally, the thought of being with her crossed his mind no matter how much he tried to distract himself. But he wasn't brash like Aiden. And Winter wasn't a shameless wench like Morrigan. Until and unless she showed signs of interest in him, he wouldn't approach her.

The following morning I left for Haven with Aiden, Alistair, and Zevran. Alduin trotted along with us. He eyed Zevran with uncertainty.

"You Fereldens and your dogs," Zev muttered in distaste. Alduin curled his lip back and made a low growl. The hound put himself between Zev and Aiden.

"Good boy; keep the bad old assassin away," Aiden taunted, patting his hound on the head. He'd heard the account of Zev gave a haughty snort and ignored us.

"You know," I remarked to Alistair, "if we'd known about this place, we could have saved ourselves a week of walking." Haven was a day's hike from Redcliffe, in the other direction.

"Look on the bright side," he suggested. "Of the treaties we had with the mages, the elves, and the dwarves, we did the hardest one first. This little side trip will secure Eamon's army, and then all we have left to do is talk with the Dalish and the dwarves."

"True," I agreed. "That sounds easy enough."


	4. She Be All Ashy and Shit

A Game of Thorns – "She Be All Ashy and Shit"

Part 1

* * *

Cultists. Is there anything more detrimental to religion than fanatics with irrational beliefs and behavior? What we found at Haven was a cult of dragon worshippers. Dragons, of all things. Other than immeasurable strength and the ability to fly, breathe fire, and incinerate or stomp their victims, there wasn't anything special about them. But these simple village folk were crazy, and possessed by a ridiculous notion that a high dragon was the risen Andraste. Maker help us.

The village appeared normal on the surface, like one of the many small mountain settlements in the region. But the veneer was thin. This village had no children. It had men and women of breeding age, and some walked together with the air of a married couple. But no children at all? It was highly suspect. Then we found one—or so I thought. A lad in his early teen years stood by one of the houses, chanting a morbid little rhyme. When we drew closer, I realized the "lad" was actually a woman with a deep voice and a slim, boyish figure.

"How incredibly sexy," Zev observed. "It's like having both a man and a woman in one skin, yes?"

Alistair stopped walking and glared at him. "That is just sick. You… you're a sick man, you know that?"

"Sticks and stones, Alistair," Zevran shrugged.

"Save the debates for your down time," I interrupted. "We need to keep moving and stay alert."

"We've got a welcoming committee ahead," Aiden said. Eight or so villagers, plus a few guards, lined up to block the path leading up to the chantry. Four crossbows were aimed at us.

"I'm not feeling the love of Andraste here," I remarked. "How about you, Aldiun?"

Upon hearing his name, the hound sprang forward and tackled the nearest guard. His crossbow fired wildly. The sound of it, and the guard's cry of alarm, started the action.

The village guards were the worst shots I'd ever seen. Either they couldn't aim, or they were so unaccustomed to fighting that they didn't know how to work a crossbow. The greatest danger from their bolts was the possibility of being hit by a stray one. _All_ of them were strays. The unarmed villagers attacked us with their fists—a suicidal run. We tried lightly wounding them, but they kept coming for us with murderous intent.

Aiden made the first kill. One of his arrows hit a woman squarely between the eyes. "Sorry, but they made the rules," he said, turning his bow on the next attacker. He was right.

"Finish it," I called over the din. We changed tactics and went for quick, merciful kills instead of trying to discourage them. Zev pulled his bow and helped take out the crossbowmen, and Alistair beheaded a mage before he could cast a single spell. Between the four of us, with Alduin's help, the fight lasted about a minute.

"Stupid," I spat, looking down at the body of a woman about my age.

"You can't fault a person for having different beliefs…" Alistair began. He didn't get far with that line of thought.

"I can when their beliefs involve trying to kill me," I hurled back. "You should try it and see if it changes your viewpoint."

"Okay, take it easy," he said. "I wasn't defending them. You could have let me finish. I agree with Aiden. They brought it on themselves."

Why was I so angry with Alistair? I'd never stopped anyone from expressing their opinion, as long as it wasn't abusive to another member of our group.

_Because these cultists remind me of Sebastian, and how easily he ordered my death._

Nobody moved. I'd been sharp with them before, when there was a need to bark an order or correct an attitude, or to stop the bickering that frequently broke out in camp. This, though, was just plain wrong. I swallowed my pride and said, "I… I overreacted. I'm sorry, Alistair."

The words hung in the air for what seemed like minutes. Then Alistair, being his usual easygoing self, broke into a big, goofy grin. "No harm done. Come on, let's go find us a dragon to slay."

Before we would find a dragon, we first had to carve our way through its defenders. Locked in a hidden room of the chantry was an injured Genetivi. He'd been tortured by the fine religious men of Haven.

"There are more of them," he warned us. "Not here. They guard the temple further up the mountain. I'm certain that's where we'll find the Urn of Sacred Ashes."

"Not 'we', Brother Genetivi," I corrected him. "I'm pressed for time, and your wounds need tending." He protested, insisting that he'd come this far and wanted to finish his quest for the urn. It was in his best interest that I refused, and sent Aiden to help him reach Redcliffe, the closest town with a healer.

"Do you want me to come back when I've done with him?" Aiden asked.

I didn't want to have to send him off to begin with, but since he was going to Redcliffe, I asked him to wait for us at the castle. "Whether or not we find the ashes, we'll have to report back to Bann Teagan. Keep an eye on things in the castle." He dutifully agreed, and we went off on our separate paths.

"A good man, that warden," Zev remarked. "And very handsome. Surely you've noticed, yes?"

"Not nearly as much as you have," I smiled back at him. I'd noticed him eyeing Aiden with clear attraction. Aiden wasn't aware of it yet, but Zev wasn't shy about his longings. Before long he'd make his lust known to him. Alistair and I looked forward to seeing Aiden's horrified reaction.

Just as Genetivi had said, armed cultists guarded the temple. These were highly skilled fighters and mages, unlike the clumsy villagers. It came as no surprise that there were also demons in the ruins, considering the crackpot religion had nothing to do with the Maker.

During the excursion we found various treasures, one of which was a figurine that Alistair liked. I didn't collect anything that wasn't practical—saw no use for such things—so I gladly handed it over to him. He received it with such humble gratitude that I didn't mention I'd found it in a pile of dragon poop.

We finally came upon a group of men who spoke to us instead of attacking on sight. Their leader was a man named Kolgrim. He went on about how Andraste had risen and taken on "a new and glorious form"—that is, the afore-mentioned dragon. He scolded us for killing his faithful nuts in the ruins, but when I said I needed some of the ashes, his attitude changed and he became rather chummy. He wanted something. Naturally.

"What is it you want me to do, Father Kolgrim?" I asked, hiding my distrust with a childlike tone and wide eyes. My innocent act always worked on self-absorbed men like Kolgrim. Alistair, who had been observing our conversation with his arms folded and a suspicious gaze, had to hide his amusement by raising a hand and putting it over his mouth in a fake-thoughtful pose.

The unsuspecting Kolgrim explained that for Andraste to fully return, the ashes needed to be destroyed with some of her blood. Where he found a vial of Andraste's blood, considering she'd been burned to death, was a curiosity. Then he revealed it. It was dragon blood. I should have known. I was allowed to take a pinch of the ashes for Eamon, then I was to pour the blood into the urn. That, he claimed, would reunite Andraste (the dragon) with Andraste (the charred human), or… Oh hell, I didn't know what he was saying, but I agreed to destroy the ashes. I wasn't overly fond of Andraste in any form. I took the vial and we set off for the mountaintop temple.

The temple's Guardian was a virtually immortal being who had kept his vigil over the urn of sacred ashes for centuries. He was the first being we encountered when we entered the shrine known as the Gauntlet. Before he allowed us deeper into the gauntlet, he wanted to ask us some personal, invasive questions.

I was first up for his inquisition. "Lady Winter MacEwan, noblewoman and warden, you were imprisoned in Starkhaven by your betrothed. But your true fault lay in your denial of the Holy Andraste. Do you still disagree that you were a blasphemer?"

Alistair gaped at me. He knew nothing of my past, not even that I came from nobility, and now he'd heard from this spirit that I'd been betrothed, imprisoned, and that I was supposedly a blasphemer. Wonderful. I would be equal to the atheistic Morrigan in his eyes, and our friendship would come to an end.

"Only the Maker is worthy of such reverence. I committed no blasphemy," I answered. "The accusations were false and my imprisonment was contrived by a religious fanatic, not too different from the ones that try to invade your temple. Or from yourself, for that matter."

"Very well," the Guardian conceded. It seemed he was more curious than concerned, and was incapable of taking offense from a mere mortal blasphemer like me. He turned his attention to my party. I could almost hear Alistair's heart breaking at this spirit-bastard's reminder of Duncan's death. Zev wasn't spared either. His involved one of his marks, I assumed. His nosy probing done, the spirit vanished and the door behind him opened.

"Let's go," I said, before anyone else could start a conversation about what the spirit had revealed of our private thoughts and failures. "Put it out of your minds and let's finish this mission."

There were five tests in the gauntlet. Riddles, a phantom bridge, a fight against invisible versions of ourselves, a spirit impersonating my father (my hatred of the Guardian soared), and lastly, we had to strip to our small clothes and walk through a fiery barrier. I wasn't keen on stripping for these two, and had less desire to see them in their small clothes, but if it meant reaching the ashes… We stripped.

_No, this isn't uncomfortable in the least…_

The flames were either an illusion or somehow cool enough to pass through unscathed. When I walked through to the other side, the Guardian put in another appearance and announced that I'd passed all the tests and was worthy to approach the urn.

_(Oh happy day, I earned his approval.)_

Alistair was in awe. I felt a sharp pang of guilt for what I was going to do. "They're only ashes, Alistair. The real Andraste died long ago. If these are truly her ashes, do you think she would have wanted them worshipped?"

"No, I suppose not," he agreed.

I removed the urn's lid. It contained maybe a double-handful of ashes, less than I was expecting to see in such a large container. A human body reduced to something to small… Instead of only a pinch, though, I took a scoop of them and placed them into a small pouch. If they had the power that some people believed they had—which I doubted—it would be a shame to destroy them all.

The vial of dragon blood was in my hand. I wavered, but only for a moment. Alistair watched, disbelieving, as I poured the blood into the urn, ruining the rest of the ashes.

The Guardian appeared immediately. "What have you done?" he boomed.

_Well look at you! You're capable of emotion after all_.

I felt a smug satisfaction at being able to offend him as he'd offended each of us. "Your services are no longer needed, spirit. You're fired." My cockiness was partly doused when two huge dust wraiths appeared. The Guardian wielded a massive war hammer, and the wraiths struck out at us with their razorlike claws. He was a tough foe, the strongest I'd battled thus far. It was no easy thing to kill a spirit with a heavy weapon, believe me. But eventually we inflicted enough wounds on him to make him fall to his knees. Alistair and I drove our blades into his chest, and the wraiths vanished when the being that had summoned them died.

When we paused to catch our breath, Alistair said to me, "It's a pity the world has been deprived of this relic, but you did the right thing. I fear many people would have died trying to reach it."

"That's why the ashes had to be destroyed," I answered.

Zev spoke up. "I do not see what the fuss is about. You merely poured refuse into a garbage bin." Ever the sensitive one, that Zevran.

One last bit of business needed to be concluded before we left the mountain. Once we were outside, Kolgrim greeted us. He was thrilled that his dragon-goddess was now complete, as if there were any change in the big flying lizard. It lay on the cliff overlooking the pass where we stood, probably deciding if there were enough of us to make a decent meal.

"Care to try your luck?" I teased Alistair, in reference to his earlier comment about slaying a dragon.

"I prefer to save myself for the archdemon," he answered. "I'm a one-dragon kind of guy."

Kolgrim offered me dragon blood to drink, claiming it would give me the strength and wisdom of the "risen lady". I'd drunk blood once, and that was enough for me, thanks.

"I don't want that worthless blood, and I don't think this world needs more crazy cultists," I said, drawing my swords.

I couldn't tell if he took more offense at my calling the blood worthless or at my threat. Regardless, we killed him and followers, relieved Kolgrim of his nice enchanted battleaxe, and made our way back through the ruins without provoking the high dragon. All in all, it was a good day's work.

With the village, ruins, and temple completely cleared of cultists (for the time being), we left the mountain and headed for Redcliffe with the ashes.

"So, you were in prison?" Alistair asked. He got no answer.

* * *

When we arrived at the castle courtyard, I asked Alistair and Zevran to go inside. I wanted to look into something that had been bothering me for a while. "I'll be along soon," I said. "Don't tell Teagan about the ashes yet, please."

"You have good reason for this delay, I take it?" Alistair questioned.

"I do. Please trust me, Alistair. This will only take a few minutes."

"I trust you," he replied. "But hurry. Every minutes the arl lies ill, his life is in danger."

While they went to the castle doors, I ran back to the windmill, used Teagan's signet ring, and slipped unnoticed into the to the dungeon corridor. I crept down the hallway that led to Jowan's cell. The mage struck me as a man who badly wanted to unburden his conscience, and with a bit of prodding, he would spill all he knew about the goings-on in the castle. As it turned out, I didn't get a chance to question him. The door separating the first set of cells from the area where Jowan was being held was open. I ducked into the shadows when I heard voices.

"You fool, I could kill you for your failure," a female voice growled. I recognized the accent. It was Isolde. "You would have let me sacrifice my life for your blood ritual if that warden hadn't stopped you."

"No, Isolde! I love you! I wouldn't hurt you or Connor."

"Poor, pathetic little man," Isolde taunted him. "Do you really think I slept with you because I love you? I needed your cooperation."

"How can you say such a thing?" Jowan moaned. "I know you're angry at me, beloved, but it can still work out as we planned. The problem with Connor wasn't my doing and it was unexpected, but I could have fixed it."

"How?" she demanded. "How could you have rid him of the demon without my blood? You would have killed me!"

"I had plenty of blood at my disposal," he answered in a sinister tone. "The warden's blood. I intended to use hers. We would have been rid of two problems at once. The demon would have been driven out, and the meddlesome warden wouldn't have gone after the urn."

Isolde scoffed. "_If_ the urn exists, those ashes are nothing but ancient dust. I sent them away to be rid of them, letting the cultists do their work and kill them before they made it to the temple. One of the Wardens has already returned, and Teagan is expecting the others any day. I have to placate them with the 'worried wife' act until your worthless poison does its job."

"The arl is a heartier man than I thought, but it will work, my love," Jowan assured her.

"Stop calling me that!" she hissed. "You were a tool, Jowan. You've served your purpose and I have no more need of you."

"Why… How can you say these things? I risked everything for you!"

"You only did it to save your own life," she answered. "The deal I made with Loghain was to have you poison Eamon. He would be rid of the main threat to his authority, and I would be rid of the disgusting old man I married to get out of Orlais. I would have been Ferelden's only female arl, and an Orlesian at that! What a slap in the face for these arrogant dog-breeders. You tutoring my son was a boon, but a small compensation for having to lie with you to gain your trust."

"But I love you!"

"You disgust me."

I stepped from the shadows. "What a touching love scene," I sneered. "If I hadn't heard it for myself… No, I can't say I wouldn't have believed it. I suspected you from the start, Isolde. But you are much more vile than I imagined. A murderess, an adulteress, and a traitor."

Her eyes were huge and horrified. "What… what do you intend to do to me?" she blubbered. She instinctively drew close to Jowan's cell. He backed away from her.

_Ah, true love…_

"Me? I'm not going to do anything to you. I'll leave that to your husband when he awakens."

"You found the urn? No. It is a myth."

"Is it? Are you so sure? Because if you were convinced it didn't exist, you wouldn't be shaking and trying to cling to your lover, who no longer wants anything to do with you."

"Jowan loves me!" she cried.

Jowan spoke up. "I don't know you. I thought I did, but you're as false as your promises."

Having heard all I needed to, I walked away from them. I half-expected a wild, flailing Isolde to try to assault me, but she stood still, letting her crocodile tears run down her cheeks. Her former lover and I were unimpressed with the act.

Teagan waited for me in the main hall. "Winter, you're safe!" he greeted me. "I worried when your companions arrived without you. Alistair said you have news. Have you found the urn?"

"I have, and I've brought some ashes."

"Quickly, let's go to Eamon."

A healer administered the ashes in a potion that was placed, drop by drop, on Eamon's tongue. Within moments he awoke, looking confused but in full health. "Teagan? What are you doing here? Where is Isolde? And Connor?"

"I am here, my husband," the sneaky bitch purred, slinking through the door as if she'd done nothing wrong. "Connor is well, and you are back with us." She laid her face on his hand in what would normally have been a loving gesture. Her eyes were fixed on mine, and I read a threat in them. She had me all wrong if she thought I feared her or her lover.

I called Teagan aside. "I'm sorry to pull you away from your brother at this time, but I urgently need to speak with you."

He agreed to meet me in the arl's study. I whispered to Alistair to stay with the arl no matter what, and I slipped from the room. Teagan followed a few minutes later. While I waited for him, I looked through the arl's desk for any evidence of communication between Isolde and Loghain. Instead, I found a locket with an inscription that read, "To my son Alistair." I put it in my pocket.

Teagan came in, shut the door, and requested an explanation. "Isolde was the one behind Eamon's poisoning," I said, hating myself for causing this family more upset than it had already endured. "I heard her conferring with Jowan, and they revealed the plot against your brother. Loghain was in on it too." I related the whole conversation as I'd heard it.

"Maker," he groaned, putting his hands over his face. "How am I going to tell Eamon that his wife conspired to murder him?"

"I'm so sorry, Teagan. I didn't want to bring you such devastating news, but if Isolde is allowed to remain here with your brother, she will try to kill him again. The next time she tries, she won't fail. For Eamon's sake, you must tell him."

"Yes, he must be told, but I wish I weren't the one to have to do it," he said. "I don't even know if he will believe such charges against Isolde."

"Question the mage," I suggested. "He will probably confess everything, now that he no longer has reason to conceal it."

I tried to encourage him but there wasn't much I could say. Teagan left the study and headed for his brother's suite. I would have preferred to stay out of it altogether, but since I was the witness to Isolde and Jowan's conversation, they might need me to explain or confirm the story. I hoped they didn't. I was much more involved in their personal lives than I'd ever wanted to be.

Teagan asked everyone to leave the room so he could talk with Eamon. After a few minutes, he opened the door and called me inside. Eamon had me repeat the conversation I'd heard. When I was finished, he thanked me and asked me to join my companions in the main hall.

Isolde was there, watching, waiting, and worrying. She evoked no pity from me since she brought it all on herself. The things she'd said about the arl made me angry for his sake.

"Did you say something to them?" she snarled at me.

"Yes, I did. Shall I repeat it for everyone to hear?"

Eamon and Teagan came in, and conversation stopped. A low murmuring began when Jowan was brought in with his hands bound. Until now, he was jailed but unchained. This didn't bode well for the unhappy couple. Isolde looked like she was going to throw up.

"I've heard some disturbing things," Eamon began.

"They are lies!" Isolde interjected. "Believe nothing of what he says, Eamon. The mage and the warden…"

"Shut up, Isolde," Eamon ordered. "Not another word." She cowered at his stern tone—one that he had probably never used with her in the past. He motioned to Jowan. "Speak up, mage."

Jowan made a full confession, taking responsibility for making the poison and giving it to Isolde, who poured it into arl's wine. He revealed their tryst and said he agreed to help her rid herself of her husband, whom she claimed was cruel and physically abusive, and she feared for her life. "She said she loved me," he said, and his shame was evident in his tone, "and I believed her because I wanted to believe it. I was such a fool."

"You were indeed," Eamon said, "and you weren't the only one fooled by her. Nonetheless, you are guilty of attempted murder."

Jowan nodded. He knew his fate was sealed, and appeared ready to face it.

"Isolde," Eamon said, turning his attention to her, "you are also guilty of attempted murder. Tell me how Loghain is involved in your plot."

"Please, my husband, don't believe this mage's lies…"

Eamon interrupted her. "Answer my charges or don't speak at all. I have enough evidence against you to have you executed today. Denial will not change this."

She looked around miserably, searching for a sympathetic face, but there were none among us. Her actions were reprehensible. She was without excuse. Finally realizing she had no recourse but to confess, she told how Loghain had contacted her, sent the apostate Jowan, then imprisoned in Denerim, to help her, and told her to kill Eamon because he was "a threat to Ferelden." She didn't care about Ferelden politics; she only wanted to be free of her husband and to inherit the arling for her son.

I expected Eamon to launch into one of those "I-gave-you-everything-and-this-is-the-thanks-I-get" speeches, but he didn't say anything on those lines. What he did say was sobering. "Isolde and Jowan, you have both admitted to attempted murder. Isolde, you further admitted to violating the law by harboring two apostates—one of whom, thanks to you, is my own son—and to conspiring with the regent to murder a ranking noble of Ferelden. In accordance with Ferelden law, I hereby sentence you both to execution, to be carried out immediately."

"Arl Eamon, if I may speak," Alistair interjected.

"Go on," Eamon said. "But be brief."

"Wouldn't imprisonment be more humane, my lord? Their deaths would accomplish nothing."

Eamon regarded him for a minute, maybe recalling him as a boy, and remembering the affection he once held for him, before Isolde's jealousy convinced him to send the child away. "Alistair, I understand your concerns and I'm aware of your high regard for life. But is it truly more humane to lock someone in the dungeon for years, or even decades, without hope of freedom?"

Alistair answered quietly, "No, my lord. Forgive my interference."

Eamon motioned to the guards, who led the prisoners away. "Now, to the matter at hand," he said, dismissing the unpleasantness. "We still need to gather more warriors to combat the blight. There is also Loghain's treachery to consider." Considering the events of the past hour since he woke from his coma—learning that the king was killed at Ostagar and Ferelden was under the rule of Loghain's daughter, that Isolde had been untrue, had never loved him, had tried to kill him, that his son was a mage and would have to be sent to the tower for the rest of his life, that he'd ordered his wife and her lover executed, and the execution was even now taking place—he seemed unusually calm.

"Loghain is starting a civil war," Teagan said. "He has supporters, but many banns refuse to follow him after the events at Ostagar."

"It's beyond comprehension. Why would he want to divide the country when there's a horde of darkspawn at our doorstep?" Eamon asked, voicing the same question we all had. "Now, of all times, we need to be united against one foe, not fighting each other."

Zevran leaned to me and whispered, "This Loghain fellow, he would have made a good Crow. He revels in the deaths of others." I elbowed him in the ribs to silence him.

"Alistair, I assume you are in possession of the treaties?" Eamon said. Alistair answered in the affirmative, and Eamon continued, "Very well. You and your companion must take those treaties to the elves and the dwarves, and have them prepare their armies for battle. In the meantime, I will call for a landsmeet."

"A landsmeet?" Teagan queried. "For what purpose?"

"Anora is a capable administrator, but she isn't of royal blood and her only claim to the throne was through her marriage to Cailan. We need to put forth someone with a stronger claim to the throne."

Teagan understood. "You mean Alistair. I agree."

"Wait, what?" Alistair protested. "Don't I have a say in this?"

Eamon said, "No, son, you don't. You are the only person in the country who had a legitimate, blood claim to the throne. If you refuse, I will be forced to serve Loghain. Is that what you would have me do?"

Alistair struggled with his reluctance to be king and his abhorrence of Loghain. "No, my lord. We will not serve Loghain. I'll do whatever I must."

Eamon replied, "As I knew you would."

It was time for us to leave Redcliffe. We had much to do before the landsmeet—finding the Dalish elves and convincing them to fight with us, then going to the dwarven city of Orzamar and doing the same there. The Dalish settlement was far to our east, and Orzamar was in the northwest. It would require weeks to cover both places.

Eamon retired to his study and Teagan saw us out of the castle. "I want to thank you again for everything you and your companions have done for us," he said to me. "These have been trying weeks, to say the least, but without your assistance we could not have pulled through."

"You give us too much credit, Teagan. You held the village together alone before we arrived."

"Your most timely arrival," he stressed. "Well, I suppose this is our farewell, but it saddens me to part company."

"I've no doubt our paths will cross again soon," I said. We shook hands, and he held onto mine for a few seconds.

"If only things were different…" he began wistfully, then he assumed a stoic air. "Goodbye, my friends, and Maker watch over you."

As we walked down the castle steps, Alistair confided, "I don't know about you, but I'm ready for a break before we start on our troop-gathering mission. Maybe a day of rest at camp is in order?"

"Indeed it is," I said. The past days had been eventful and tiring. We were of no use to anyone in our current state of fatigue. "If Your Majesty wishes, we can even take two days," I added impishly.

"Don't start," he warned, but he was smiling.


	5. Ask the Lonely

Ask the Lonely

Part 1 - Alone

* * *

Alone in my tent, I decided it was time to read the letter I'd received in Denerim. I'd recognized Sebastian's handwriting the instant I saw it, and I felt no urgency to hear anything he had to say. A couple of weeks had passed since I'd gotten it, and curiosity overcame reluctance. I pulled the letter from the pack and broke the wax seal.

_Brother_ Sebastian, as he called himself these days, apologized for his "sins" against me ("crimes" was a more fitting word), and asked me to join him at the chantry in Kirkwall where he was now living as a full-fledged brother. He went on and on about the wonderful Grand Cleric Elthina, and related how she'd agreed to counsel me and to accept me when I'd repented of my blasphemy. Since he'd left Starkhaven for good (where I was no longer welcome, thanks to his lies, let us not forget), we could finally be together and have that gloriously boring chaste marriage he wanted. He didn't word it quite like that, but since he remained bound to his precious chantry and his beloved Andraste, his meaning was clear.

After falsely accusing me of treason, sentencing me to death, then reversing himself and banishing me from my homeland without cause, did he _really_ believe I would come crawling back to him? Did he think I was so needy and so desperate for affection that I would settle for a man I couldn't trust and confine myself to his hands-off marriage? And more, did he still think me a blasphemer who needed the approval of some grand cleric? For all the time we'd spent together, he didn't know me at all.

He made reference to the house I'd bought—the Amell Estate, if you recall. He'd run across Gamlin Amell who saw fit to blab my private business to him simply because he was a countryman of mine. (_Gamlin_ visited the chantry? I would almost have found it more likely that the good brother had found Gamlin while visiting the brothel, were he not so smitten with a dead prophetess.) Sebastian informed me that we would live in a suite in Kirkwall's large chantry and had no need of a house. Awfully presumptuous of him, wouldn't you agree?

His condescending, imperious letter did nothing but stir up the pain I'd buried. Fresh anger rose in me, and I detested the feel of it. I crumpled the pages, stepped outside my tent, and tossed them into the campfire. Several pairs of eyes were on me, but I didn't look at anyone. In my current mood I needed to be alone long enough to get my rage under control. The letter was confirmation that my past life was over and what life I had left was here. Ferelden was my home, and my companions were the closest thing I had to a family.

Well, some of them were. Alistair and Aiden, mostly. Aiden was like a big brother who showed his affection by picking on me to see if he could get me riled. He was pretty good at finding what annoyed me, I'll admit. It was all in good fun, but the man had a gift for irritation.

Alistair, on the other hand, was more like... I wasn't quite sure, but we had grown closer in recent weeks. He was especially touched when I gave him the locket I'd found in Arl Eamon's study. He recognized it immediately as his mother's, and he thanked me profusely. I was happy to have been the one to find it, if for no other reason but to witness his reaction.

Though he never let on, I believed he was lonely. He'd been ignored by his father, orphaned as an infant, denied by his half-brother, and finally pushed out of the only home he knew by the hateful Isolde. His humor, I was sure, masked deep wounds made by people he'd trusted when he was younger. Because of that, I felt protective toward him. There was nothing romantic between us, but we could usually be found together during our waking hours. Rumors flew, of course, but they were without substance. We were just close friends. (That's what I kept telling myself.)

* * *

Alistair, Aiden, Leliana, and Zevran watched Winter throw a wad of vellum into the campfire. By the stone-set of her countenance, they knew she was angry. Beyond angry. She didn't look up or speak to anyone, but ducked back in her tent for a moment, then reemerged and set off in the direction of the waterfall, making as if she were going for a bath.

"That's a good strategy to keep others away," Aiden remarked to Alistair. "She's already had one bath today, so I think it's safe to assume she's avoiding us. No one would dare approach her when she's in a mood anyway. I know_ I_ wouldn't." He added with a mischievous grin, "If you want to go check on her, though, I'm sure you could find a way to calm her down."

Alistair agreed absently, not catching Aiden's innuendo. He was busy trying not to get his hair singed off while he tried to retrieve the papers from the fire. The edges of the vellum were beginning to burn and if he didn't hurry, it would be consumed. He snatched up a stick and pushed the papers from the fire, then reached in with a quick motion, like a snake's strike, and snagged the crumpled paper with two fingers, receiving a mild burn for his troubles.

"Nosy," Aiden chided him.

"Right, like you aren't curious," Alistair answered dryly. "I recall it was you who wanted to know more about her past."

"And you don't? So what are you waiting for? Let's read it."

Zevran spoke up in her defense. "One should not take it upon themselves to pry into another's personal affairs. If you have questions, why don't you simply ask her?" Leliana was like his echo, voicing the same objection to the other wardens' curiosity and their digging into Winter's belongings, discarded or not, without her consent.

"Thanks for your unasked-for advice," Alistair said. "This is on me, and if she learns of it and gets angry, she can be angry with me. I'll be sure to tell her, before she rips my head off, that the two of you did your best to stop me."

"Read the letter," Aiden prompted again. Leliana and Zev's objections were just noise to him.

Alistair refused. "I'm going to hang on to it for a while. I may or may not read it, but if I do, I won't be sharing its contents with anyone."

They bickered over the letter until Alistair and Aiden were so upset with each other that each went to his own tent to sulk. Zevran took the opportunity to shmooze Leliana, who was flattered by his attention. Until he, believing her a willing target, openly propositioned her. She took offense and went to her tent as well, leaving him outside alone. He shrugged off her rebuff. He'd been refused more times than he'd been accepted, but there was always someone else willing to have sex with him. In his present state of confinement, though, he might have a challenge finding partners. Ever the optimist, he was willing to bide his time. One of the lovely ladies in the camp would eventually succumb to his charm. Maybe, if his lucky streak held, he would eventually bed them all, and the handsome Aiden, too.

Alistair debated whether or not to read the letter. His curiosity was killing him, but he didn't want to cross Winter or lose her trust. Still, as their leader, she should be a little forthcoming about who and what she was before she became a Grey Warden. After all, he had been open with her. Well, not at first, but now she knew his lineage, which was his deep dark secret. What was hers? Why was she so distant, even now that they'd become close?

He pulled at the edges of the papers, smoothed them out, then laid them aside. No, he couldn't. Could he? It wasn't right to pry. She'd probably never speak to him again if she knew he had her letter. But he worried about her. No, that wasn't all of it. He had begun to care for her as more than a friend. She might never feel anything for him, but his growing affection for her wasn't something he could stop and start at will. He cared. And because he cared, he ought to know…

"Sod it," he muttered, and grabbed the papers. It was expensive vellum, not the cheap kind of parchment he usually saw. Whoever wrote this letter had wealth. Only nobles wasted good coin on writing paper. His inner battle raged—curiosity against honor—but he read anyway. When he'd finished, he was more curious than before. This "Brother Sebastian" referred to a chantry, but Winter wasn't the chantry type. They were evidently betrothed at one time…

_This must be the person the Guardian referred to!_

He read the letter again, keeping in mind the question the spirit had asked of her. Now the Guardian's remarks, and the letter, made more sense. It was far from the full story, but he could see why she kept everyone at a distance. This man must have wounded her badly. Not in the physical sense. She could take that kind of pain as well as any man, and better than some. This bastard had broken her heart.

He lay down and pondered what he'd just learned about his companion, and the unanswered questions that nagged at him. Why would she become involved with a chantry brother in the first place? From initiates to the Divine, including templars, all were pledged to the Maker and Andraste. Taking vows was the final step to seal their commitment. The man referred to marriage so maybe he _hadn't_ taken his vows. Maybe he wavered in his decision to devote his life to religious service. But why did he call himself 'brother'? That title wasn't earned until one had taken their vows.

Even if the chantry would permit this marriage—which it wouldn't—why straddle two worlds? Brother Sebastian had to know that the chantry forbade sex (as Alistair was achingly aware). Every person who served was required to remain chaste, with or without vows. So again, why would Winter become involved with a man who couldn't give himself to her emotionally or physically? She was a level-headed woman. She had to know how such a relationship would end.

His thoughts went round and round like a dog chasing its tail, a pointless pursuit that yielded no satisfaction. He was pulled from the brink of driving himself mad by the aroma of roasting meat. Food. That's what he needed to clear his head. He hadn't eaten all day, and someone had kindly taken his turn making dinner, since he'd been so wrapped up in his snooping that he'd forgotten. He rose and went to lend a hand to the cook. It was the least he could do after nearly starving his companions with his neglect of duty.

Leliana was turning the spit, roasting the last of the deer Aiden had killed the previous morning. Winter was sitting cross-legged near the fire, gazing into it. Alistair noted how beautiful she looked in the firelight. She was always beautiful, but this evening she was exceptionally so. She wasn't angry as she'd been earlier. Her flawless face was serene. She glanced up at him and gave him a slight smile of acknowledgement, and her green gemstone eyes captured a bit of the flame and cast it back at him.

_Beautiful? What an understatement! She's magnificent._

"Maker's breath, but…" he began, and stopped before he could say something stupid. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for the rest of his comment. "Makers breath, but you're too close to the fire. I was afraid you'd combust before my eyes. By the way, how's your arm? Wynne healed it, am I right?" he babbled. _That's it, change the subject. Throw her off the scent. _

"Good as new," she said, raising her elbow and showing the pale, thin pink scar on her upper arm.

"Well, I suppose it's too late to give you a get-well gift." He'd wanted to give her the rose as soon as he'd found it, but there was never a good time. This probably wasn't great timing either, but the rose was wilting and he wanted her to have it before it was a dried-out stem.

"Is it ever the wrong time for gifts?" she countered.

He crouched beside her and produced the rose. When he'd picked it, it was ready to bloom, more vivid in color than her lips but not nearly as appealing to behold.

_Get hold of yourself, Alistair. She's as likely to throw it in the fire as accept it._

Her face brightened when she saw the flower. "Wherever did you find this? It's lovely."

"Can you keep a secret?" he asked, sotto voce. She nodded solemnly. "I stole it from Arl Eamon's gardens. Risked life and limb to get it, too. His garden guards are vigilant fellows." That was partly true. It had come from Eamon's gardens, but the guards despised Isolde so much that he could have uprooted the entire bush—imported from Orlais on her orders—for all they cared.

"I won't breathe a word," she said, playing along. "Thank you for risking all for my gift. I'll treasure it." She brought it to her face, closed her eyes, and took in the scent that still lingered on the blossom. When she opened her eyes he was still watching her.

"Something else on your mind?" she queried.

He'd been caught ogling. What to say now? _Yes, of course._ "I've been wanting to talk to you about what happened at Redcliffe Castle," he said.

Her smile faded. "I know. It was callous of me to break the news about Isolde to Arl Eamon right after he woke from a coma. I just couldn't see how waiting would benefit…"

"Stop," Alistair interrupted. "That's not what I wanted to say. I think you did a marvelous thing by saving Connor, finding the ashes that healed Arl Eamon, and uncovering the conspiracy against him. You've done so much good. Those people were strangers to you, but Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan are practically family to me. I wanted to thank you."

She flushed, which was something Alistair never though he would see her do. "I did what anyone would have done," she said. "Nothing extraordinary."

"Nonsense. You did what nobody else could or was willing to do. You saved the life of a good man, and maybe the only one respected enough in the landsmeet to deal with Loghain."

She agreed, "Yes. It was well worth our effort, wasn't it?" Her brow furrowed. "I thought magic was an hereditary trait. If Connor is a mage, how did he get his magic? Certainly not from the arl, I'd wager."

"Teagan and Eamon are looking into Isolde's family background. They're convinced Isolde was an untutored apostate or that one of her parents was a practicing mage in Orlais. No evidence yet, but that's where they believe Connor got his… talent."

"Pity," Winter said, gazing into the fire again. "So much deception, and for what? Selfishness, pride, wealth, power? Is it ever worth the price?"

Alistair knew she wasn't thinking of Eamon's family any more, but of the man who'd betrayed her. There was a lot more to her story than he'd gleaned from the letter. "No, it's not worth the price," he answered. "Not when it costs you everything dear."

Winter got to her feet, asked him to tell the others to have dinner without her, and excused herself. She went to her tent and secured the flap.

"You never know when to stop talking, do you?" Alistair berated himself under his breath.

Aiden appeared beside him. "What did it say?" he whispered. "What was in the letter?"

"Nothing," Alistair replied. "It was just a letter. Nothing important or revealing."

Aiden snorted. "Sure, now tell me the one about the unicorn and the mermaid."

"It was nothing," Alistair repeated in a firmer tone.

Aiden held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, fine, so it was nothing. Keep your little secrets if you want. You don't have to be an ass about it."

"I think I hear Morrigan calling you," Alistair sneered.

"Jealous?"

"Nauseous."

Winter's voice floated out to them from her tent. "Enough, children. Mum is trying to sleep."

Aiden grinned, turned to Alistair to offer an apology, and noticed the sappy, adoring look on his friend's face. "Well, _someone's_ got a great big sloppy crush on the boss lady," he said as quietly as he could, while still managing to turn it into a stinging taunt. Alistair gave no reply. His silence was as good as a signed confession. "Good hunting," he finished, then dove into his dinner.

* * *

Part 2 – More Than a Feeling

Zevran moved his tent between Leliana's and mine—not surprisingly, since he was an insatiable womanizer. I'd heard he had tried to lure Aiden into his tent for a massage. Aiden was horrified, and after he set Zev straight—that he was a ladies' man _only_—he avoided the "creepy little elf". Alistair and I went out of our way to tease Aiden about it. We liked to watch a grown man shudder like a little girl, and it was a chance to get payback for all the razzing and pranks Aiden pulled on us.

We spent two rest days in camp to gather our strength before setting out to find the Dalish and the dwarves. I made the rounds of the camp trying to get to know Morrigan, Zevran, and Sten better. Morrigan was as hard to get to know as was Shale, but once I gave her the grimoire I'd found in the tower, she dropped her defensiveness and sarcasm, and we developed a guarded friendship. Over time I'd come to know her as a highly intelligent, practical woman.

Zevran freely answered any question I had about his past as an assassin, and about his Dalish roots. He loved to talk about himself, and every one of his anecdotes contained a reference to his prowess in the bedroom. For all his experience with women, he hadn't figured out that the last thing a woman wants to hear are tales of all the women a man has bedded. He assumed I was jealous, but the truth was that I found the stories of his conquests distasteful. I steered the conversation to less personal topics, but he always found a way to bring it back around to sex.

"You're obviously Dalish, but you don't consider yourself Dalish?" I asked, hoping he wouldn't have a sex story to go with the answer.

"Not at all. I consider myself Antivan. My mother was a Dalish whore in Antiva. I do not know who my father was, but it appears he was also Dalish—an elf, to be sure. Anyone with enough coin to pay for my mother's services could have been my father. To answer your question, I have to say I do not think myself Dalish. They are forest-dwelling savages, content to live in simplicity and commune with nature. I am nothing like them. I fancy the finer things in life, not a squalid camp in the woods."

_That's an improvement. Almost no reference to sex this time…_

"Is that so? What kind of things do you fancy?" I regretted the words as soon as I'd spoken them.

"I fancy beauty, and danger, and above all, beautiful and dangerous women, like yourself."

"Let me be clear. Ours is a business arrangement. That's all it will ever be."

"I am sure I could change your mind, given the opportunity." His tone was sly and arrogant—two qualities I despised in a person. I liked Zev, but not his enormous ego.

"Stop right there," I said, thoroughly annoyed with him. "I don't want to hear any more of this. I'm interested in your experiences _as an assassin_, and I'm concerned about you as I am any other member of our group, but I am _not_ interested in your sex life—past, present, or future."

I'd angered him with my bluntness, but that was his problem. He bid me a curt good night and went to his tent, even though it was mid afternoon. The thing with Zev was that he couldn't stay mad for more than a few minutes. I left him to work through his little tiff and get over it. He was a cheerful fellow by nature and an incurable optimist. Sure enough, he was back outside in no time, chatting amicably with whoever would listen, as if nothing had happened.

Sten admitted that I was a stronger leader than he'd originally thought. Earning the respect of a Qunari was no small accomplishment. He was a "born warrior" as he put it, and he'd seen few non-Qunari with any sense of honor, and no humans among them. Until he observed me.

We were to leave for the Bracilian Forest the following morning. I decided on a party of five—Alistair, Aiden, Zevran, Morrigan, and myself. Morrigan's magic and Aiden's bow skills would come in handy in the forest, and Zev being Dalish might be useful in gaining the elves' trust. Before I retired for the night, Alistair had a request.

"Can we talk for a moment?" he began.

"Uh-oh, is it secret-sharing time already?"

"Right. Very funny," he said without any real sarcasm. "What I wanted to ask you is this: we may be going to Denerim again soon, and if possible, I'd like to look someone up while we're there."

"I hadn't planned on going to the Bracilian by way of Denerim. It's a bit out of the way…"

He smirked, not finding my humor to his liking tonight. "I meant _after_ we deal with the Dalish."

"Alright, what's going on with you? You have a friend outside the wardens, I take it?"

"Not a friend, and definitely not the kind of friend you're thinking," he said. (I wasn't thinking what he thought I might be thinking.) "I have a sister in Denerim. With the blight coming and all, I'd like to see her before… well, in case..."

"Of course, Alistair. We'll make time for you to see her no matter what we're doing," I answered. "Have you written to tell her you'll be visiting?"

"No, I don't know what to say to her. I never actually met her."

"Awkward," I remarked. "Yes, by all means, we can stop by and see her. You can visit her alone or I can come along for support if you'd like. Your choice."

"Thank you, Winter. I'd like you to be there when I meet her," he said, seemingly relieved to have it off his chest, or relieved that I hadn't refused. "You're a good friend. I don't tell you this nearly often enough, but I do appreciate you."

"Oh, stop with the schmoozing," I teased. "I already said we'd go, didn't I?"

"A little extra buttering up never hurts," he teased back.

I found it impossible not to like Alistair. He was a gentleman and never made crude remarks around me like Zevran did, or dropped not-too-subtle hints about my nonexistent love life as Aiden did. I enjoyed his company, his occasional and possibly accidental wisdom, and when he wasn't being positively absurd, his good humor. Even his cynical remarks were usually funny. He was kind-hearted to a fault. All in all, he was a fine man. One just had to get past his jokes to find the real Alistair. That was no easy feat. All of that, and he was easy on the eyes, too.

"You're very handsome, you know," I blurted out unintentionally.

"Do you think so? I've always thought myself the dashing but unattractive hero type. You know, with hideous facial scars and disfigurements," he answered, as if he had rehearsed the lines and been waiting for a chance to say them. "Horrible to look at, but so famous that women fall at my feet. You've seen them chasing after me, right?"

"It was a genuine compliment, Alistair. Must you ruin the moment?"

He answered, "I… I just didn't expect to hear it, especially from you."

"Oh? You think me incapable of recognizing an attractive man when I see one?"

"Far from it. You fawned over Bann Teagan so shamelessly that I was afraid I'd have to drag you away from Redcliffe by your hair."

"What rubbish!" I protested. Truth be told, Teagan was the first man I'd been drawn to since Sebastian. He was handsome, and he hadn't been shy about voicing his attraction to me. He impressed me with his compassion for others and his loyalty to family. To be honest, I hadn't seen a single negative quality in him. If I'd met him at another time, under better circumstances, and if he were a few years younger, maybe there could have been something more between us. But it was a moot point. Our brief, superficial relationship—if it could even be called such—wasn't going anywhere. We'd helped them when they needed aid, and when our work was done we moved on, as we always did, and would continue to do. The blight was our highest priority.

"Will you miss it?" Alistair broke my reverie with an odd question. "The fighting, I mean. When this is over and we've nothing to do, will you miss it?"

"In peace, vigilance," I quoted with a wry smile.

"I'm serious."

"Miss _it_, or miss _you_?" I asked, putting him on the spot to watch him squirm. It worked.

"Well, no, that's not what I meant. Anyway, you haven't answered. Will you miss the fighting? And since you brought it up, would you miss me? Would you remember who I was, or would I just be that irritating fellow you used to know but can't recall his name?"

I thought on it for a bit. "I do love a good, bloody battle," I sighed with exaggerated wistfulness.

"And still she won't answer me," he said in exasperation.

"Yes, Alistair, I would miss you if we had to part company. I don't see that happening. We haven't seen the full extent of the horde, but it was enough to obliterate thousands of soldiers in a few hours. We won't have nearly that number when we face them again. So if anything, I expect we will die together in battle."

"You certainly know how to cheer a fellow up."

"Don't mention it," I said, rising from my perch by the fire. "Good night. Early start tomorrow." I heard a muttered "Good night" from him as I entered my tent. It was late, I was tired, but my mind kept running over the events at Redcliffe. I'd become quite fond of the Guerrin brothers.

_Who am I kidding?_ I was thinking of Alistair, and my growing attraction to him. Much of what I did for Eamon and Teagan was to please my fellow warden. It wasn't something I wanted to happen, but I was beginning to care deeply for him.

But with the blight coming, a romantic entanglement was just plain foolish.

For the first time since I left the Free Marches, I dropped my emotional guard and felt the sharp barbs of loneliness.

* * *

Part 3 – Torch Song

Eamon had little to say, and he hadn't mentioned Isolde's betrayal or her execution. Teagan was concerned for him. He'd just been through more trauma than any one person should have to handle in a few days. Or in a lifetime. And it came on the heels of a near-fatal illness.

"I appreciate all you've done, Teagan, but I don't need a babysitter. I'll be fine," Eamon said. "Go home and see to your bannorn. I'm sure your people have need of their bann after all the time you've been absent."

"Perhaps they do, but my steward is capable," Teagan replied. "I should stay a bit longer to make sure you're fully recovered. What if you need…"

"Thank you, truly, but I'll be fine on my own," Eamon interrupted. "I'm good as new, the poison is gone, and my health is better than ever. There's no need for you to worry about me." He went on in a more subdued tone, "I can't believe my wife was a traitor. The adultery is easier to accept. She made a fool of me. A pretty face, a much younger woman… I should have known better."

"No one knew or suspected her until the Grey Warden found her out," Teagen said. "You can't blame yourself."

Eamon sighed heavily. "I suppose I don't, deep down. The worst of it is that I'll have to send my son to the Circle. I'll never see him again. It's the right thing, it's best for him, but it's the hardest decision of my life, harder than when I sent Alistair away." He looked up at his brother with pained eyes. "Alistair was like a son to me, as you know. I failed him as I've failed Connor."

"The failure is not yours," Teagan insisted. "These are circumstances beyond your control. No one knew Isolde was an apostate. Her jealousy is what made you send Alistair away. She was threatened by the boy, and it was just as irrational as her possessiveness of me."

"Don't think I didn't notice that," Eamon scowled. "She denied it, but it was obvious even to the servants and townsfolk. I didn't suspect anything between you for a moment, for what it's worth. Not that _she_ was trustworthy. But maybe the gossip will finally be buried with her."

Teagan didn't know what to say. Isolde's execution was only three days past. His brother had to be suffering greatly, but he wasn't ready to bare the fullness of his grief to anyone. He ventured, "If you'd allow me to stay one more night, I'd like to spend some time with Connor." Templars would be arriving in the morning to take his nephew to the tower.

"Of course you can stay," Eamon said. "I wasn't trying to run you off. By all means, let's give Connor some good memories to take with him to the Circle. He might even let you beat him at chess if you go to him with that pitiful look on your face."

Teagan lost to Connor, as usual. The boy was a prodigy. He'd rule the tower with his mastery of the game, assuming chess was allowed. He gave his nephew a bear hug, lifting him off the floor. It saddened him to know he'd never be able to hug him again. When the boy went to his suite, Eamon bid his brother good night and retired as well.

Teagan climbed the stairs to his guest suite, the room Eamon reserved just for him. It was at the end of a hall on the upper floor, and the door next to his led to a terrace overlooking the lake. He bypassed his suite and went to the terrace.

It was a moonless night. The lake below was inky black in the darkness. From the dim village fires and lamplight, he could make out a vague outline of the shore. He sat in one of the wrought iron chairs, hoping the brisk night air and the whisper of the waves would clear his head. His concern for Eamon and Connor wasn't the only thing keeping him at Redcliffe Castle.

He had memories of _her_ here. Not memories of Isolde—Maker's blood, he couldn't forget that treacherous harlot soon enough—but memories of Winter, the beautiful, courageous Grey Warden. He was enthralled by her. Her outward beauty—breathtaking as it was—was but a reflection of her character. He had witnessed her indomitable spirit, her compassion, and her selflessness. Their brief exchange at the tavern would haunt his memory for as long as he lived. Now she was gone, and chances were he'd never see her again.

He thought himself the unluckiest of men. For almost twenty years he'd waited for the right woman to come into his life. When she finally did, she was out of his reach. He had convinced himself he was content as a single man, but now that he'd met her, his solitary life held no appeal.

He went to his suite and lay across the bed, not bothering to disrobe, hoping fatigue would calm his racing thoughts… but knowing sleep would elude him. After a couple of hours of miserable restlessness, he decided he couldn't stay in Redcliffe with the memories after all. He slipped out of the castle in the predawn hours, collected his horse from the stables, and rode to Rainesfere.

After greeting his steward and being brought up to date on the situation in the bannorn, he went to his study to write a letter. He'd been considering this for some months, but with the present disquiet in his emotions, he couldn't put it off any longer.

He'd been dating a widow in Denerim for the past four years. Theirs was both a friendly and a physical relationship. He and Adele Kendells, sister-in-law of the late Arl Urien Kendells, shared common interests in several areas, as well as a disdain for politics. During one of Teagan's infrequent visits to King Cailan's court, he met Adele and a friendship grew between them. They were lonely, and because neither was looking for marriage, it made sense that they draw comfort from each other. The arrangement had been pleasant in its way, without being confining.

As with any long term, non-romantic tryst, it had become unexciting. Not that Adele wasn't a fine, attractive woman. She would have no trouble finding another partner, if she hadn't already done so. If she had, Teagan was indifferent. He hadn't seen her since before the battle of Ostagar, and that was months past. Until he met Winter, he'd frankly forgotten all about Adele.

Being a gentleman, he felt it necessary that there be a formal end to their arrangement. He worded his letter kindly, wishing her well, but asking that she refrain from contacting him in the future. An unexpected shudder ran through him. For the first time, the idea of sleeping with her disgusted him.

"I think I'll omit that from the letter," he muttered to himself with a half-smile. He sealed it and gave it to his steward with instructions to have it delivered to Mrs. Kendells right away.

That done, he would start again with a clean slate. He would be no worse off without the occasional tumble. (Another shudder of revulsion hit him.) That he could think of it in such base terms bothered him.

_It's because of _her_. I can't think of being with another woman. I've fallen for Winter, and while I know I'll never have her, I'd rather be alone than to entertain a cheap substitute for love. _

Immediate business settled for the time being, he went to his suite to rest before plunging into his work. Maybe there, in the comfort of his manor and familiar surroundings, with his routine to keep him occupied, he would begin to forget her face, her voice, her laughter, and everything about her that made him long to be with her.

But he didn't truly believe she _was_ forgettable.


	6. A Bracilian Werewolf in Thedas

A Bracilian Werewolf in Thedas

Part 1 – "Hungry Like the Wolf"

* * *

The Dalish camp was deep in the Bracilian Forest. The forest covered hundreds of acres of land, by my estimation. Our best chance of finding the reclusive elf clan was by following the narrow river than flowed through the dense woodlands. It paid off; we found the camp at the riverhead.

The clan was suffering from an illness caused by—of all things—werewolf bites. "Real, actual werewolves?" I asked. It sounded like superstitious twaddle.

"Come and see," keeper Zathrian answered, leading us to where several of their hunters lay ill. As crazy as it sounds, some of them were showing signs of change—elongated limbs and snouts, distortion of the ribcage and torso, and in elves, that didn't normally have facial or body hair, tufts of coarse fur appeared all over. The normal hair of their heads had fallen out and their scalps were covered with short, dense, uneven fur too.

"Where can the werewolves that caused this sickness be found?" I asked. "I'll deal with them."

"There's more to this," he said. He told a story of the lead wolf, one that they called Witherfang, that was the source of all the problems. This kind of curse on his people could only be removed with Witherfang's heart.

"You want me to kill this Witherfang and bring back his heart? Will that really cure your people?"

"I expect it will," he said noncommittally. He wasn't fully cooperative, but we needed the help of the expert Dalish archers against the darkspawn. I wasn't left much of a choice as to how I could enlist their help, treaty or no treaty. Zathrian made it clear that he wouldn't send a single archer to fight with us when his clan was in more immediate danger.

His outright refusal to honor the ancient treaty galled me. "Fine, I'll go find Witherfang," I said. "But when your people are cured, I expect to see them in battle alongside the rest of us."

He promised they would honor the treaty if we did our part first. We set off into the deepest part of the forest in search of a werewolf. How would I be able to tell Witherfang from any other werewolf? Was this one so different from the rest? Apparently so, if it had the power to bring curses on the Dalish.

By now you would think I'd be ready for anything in Ferelden. After having fought darkspawn, demons and abominations, mages with mind-numbing spellpower (I'd met none in Starkhaven), walking corpses, crazed cultists, and a bipolar Guardian, I was sure I'd seen it all. Far from it.

The beasties of the day were murderous walking trees, a talking oak that spoke in rhyme, werewolves—the real thing—determined to our throats out, an insane mage who liked to play a game of questions and answers, revenants of incredible strength, walking skeletons armed with bows and swords, immense spiders, a couple of _talking_ werewolves, and at the werewolves' lair, a naked woman with her hair barely covering her breasts and some strategically-placed roots that seemed to grow from her flesh, obscuring rather than concealing her private parts.

"We never had trees like that in Highever," Aiden said, admiring the woman's shapely form. Zev gawked openly as well. Morrigan snorted in disgust at them both. Her revealing outfit was matronly in comparison.

"Can I interest you in a dress?" I quipped.

The lead werewolf, a huge brute referred to as Swiftrunner, leapt to her defense, snarling at me and ordering that I "respect the Lady of the Forest." Well. Maybe _she_ should act with a bit more respectability, starting with clothes.

This being, or woman, spoke in gentle tones and with unexpected wisdom. The werewolves bowed to her as if she were a queen. She treated them as family. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought someone spiked my waterskin with lyrium, and this whole episode was a drug-dream.

In spite of doubting my eyes and my sanity, I asked her politely, "My Lady, I need the help of the Dalish against the blight. How can we bring peace to your clans?"

"Darkspawn. I have seen them in the forest. Vile monsters," she answered in her odd, hollow voice. She told me the truth about the curse: it came from Zathrian, when his family was murdered. Now there was to be a showdown between Zathrian and Witherfang… or the Lady of the Forest… or whatever/whoever she/it was. I was getting a headache trying to sort it all out.

Zathrian wasn't just a keeper with a normal elven keeper's knack for magic. A "keeper" of secrets and lies, he was a centuries-old sorcerer with anger issues.

"If you wish to help us, bring Zathrain here so we can negotiate," she requested.

We found him in the ruins just below the entrance. He flatly refused to talk to the Lady. While I kept his attention, Zev slipped around behind him and knocked him out. We dragged him down to the lair.

When he opened his eyes, I held my blade to his chest and warned him, "If you even look like you're going to attack, I'll kill you before you braw a breath." His death would mean the werewolf clan would be cursed forever, but there was no guarantee he would remove the curse anyway. When the Lady pleaded with him to lift the curse and release her clan, Zathrian refused.

"How can this be settled, then?" I asked the Lady. I was done talking to Zathrian.

She answered with profound sadness, and with compassion that Zathrian lacked, "We turned his curse back on his people to try to force him to remove it. As long as he lives, the curse lives. If he dies without lifting the curse, I will continue, but I promise it will not be spread to others."

I conferred with Alistair and Aiden. "If he won't remove the curse, he must die, and the Lady has promised we'll have her clan as allies. It's not the ideal solution, but it will stop the curse from spreading." They agreed. "Let's give Zathrian one more chance to do the right thing."

Before we could act, Zathrian bowed before the Lady. "Forgive me, spirit. I will release you." He and the Lady disappeared, and the werewolves transformed instantly into humans.

"Do you think he knew we were going to kill him?" Aiden asked.

Morrigan broke in. "I had a talk with him. When he learned that I was Flemeth's daughter, he became so frightened that he would agree to anything rather than have her curse him with something far worse than lycanthropy."

None of us were inclined to ask her what could be worse. Even Aiden, whom she seemed to love, was wary of such discussions.

The Dalish began to heal right away, and though their recovery would take a few weeks, the new keeper promised to honor the treaty.

I've given an abbreviated account of the events. Truth was, it was an extremely difficult and dangerous endeavor, and all of us sustained injuries that required treatment and rest. As pressing as the need for more soldiers was, I didn't feel we should continue to Orzammar in our current condition. I told the group we would return to camp for a few days, getting what healing we could from Wynne and taking time off to rest.

Aiden led Zevran and Morrigan back to camp while Alistair and I went on a side trip. I had promised him we would go to Denerim. There was no time like the present, because we didn't know if we had a tomorrow.

Alistair found his sister's house and he hesitated. He wanted to meet her, but he was nervous about how to greet a sister he'd never met, what to say to her, and how she would receive him. "What if she just throws me out? I have no proof that I'm her brother."

"I'll back you up, but I don't think you'll need my input. You know enough facts about your birth to convince her," I encouraged him.

We found the door open and went inside. Alistair called out, "Hello? Is anyone home?"

A woman appeared from the back of the small house. She was pretty, a few years older than Alistair, dressed in shabby clothing, not unkempt but very poor. Her house was clean, but her furniture was stark and splintering with age. "You have linens to wash?" She prattled on about her rate, and warned him about other washwomen who cheated their customers.

"No, I'm not here for wash," he said. "The truth is, well, I'm your brother. I'm Alistair."

Her countenance screwed up into an unattractive scowl. "My _what_? I have no brother."

Alistair explained that his mother was a serving girl at Redcliffe Castle, and his sister's scowl deepened with her rage. "They lied to me and kicked me out in the street! They told me you'd died with Mother, but they lied. They paid me a few silvers just to shut me up so the king's precious reputation wouldn't get soiled."

"I'm sorry…" Alistair began, and got no further.

"Yeah, I'll bet you're sorry. You look like you've done pretty well for yourself, with your fancy armor and high title, Prince Alistair. Just like your father, ain't ya? You even brought along one of your mistresses." She turned her venom on me. "Don't go thinkin' you'll be his only one, girlie."

"Don't talk to her like that," he responded angrily. "She's my friend and she's a Grey Warden, just like I am."

"Ooh, look at you, a prince _and_ a Grey Warden," she taunted. "Well, why don't you share some of that wealth and prove you're really my brother, then we can talk."

I turned to Alistair, disgusted with the greedy woman. "She's not interested in family, Alistair. All she wants is money." (If she only knew that Alistair didn't have a single sovereign to his name…)

"You're right," he said. He and his sister Goldanna ("Golddigger" was a more fitting name), were eyeing each other like two stray cats. "I don't know why I came here to begin with." We exited the house with the sound of her insults and curses ringing in our ears. Once outside, he took a minute to regain his composure. "I don't really know what I expected, honestly, but I never thought my sister would end up being a… being such a…"

"Bitch," I supplied. He nodded. "Alistair, she's no different from nearly everyone else. People look to their own interests. You might do well to do the same." I glanced back at the shack. "But not to that extent."

"You may be right," he mused. "Let's just get out of here. I can't wait to return to a more cordial atmosphere—maybe exchange insults with Morrigan before I adjourn to my comfy spot on the hard ground in camp."

"That's enough pouting out of you, Prince," I scolded, drawing a hint of a smile from him. "Come on." I grabbed his hand and led him toward the Gnawed Noble tavern. His big hand engulfed mine. Our hand-in-hand stroll drew a few stares, but I ignored them. Alistair beamed. If I could have seen myself, I'd have known I looked like a girl on her first date.

He opened the tavern door for me. "I hope you're not thinking to get me drunk and take advantage of me," he said with mock-horror.

"Furthest thing from my mind," I answered. He responded with a mild oath under his breath, making me laugh. A flagon of mead would help him put the unpleasant meeting behind him. I convinced myself that the drink was because I didn't want my best fighter distracted when we went into our next battle. It wasn't because I wanted to spend some time alone with him.

* * *

Part 2 – "I Want to Know What Love Is"

"Feeling better now?" I asked when we were halfway through our mead.

"Much," he answered. "Thanks for being there for me."

"Of course. What else did I have to do today but babysit my favorite warden?"

He brightened. "I'm your favorite, am I? What will the others say?" He sobered a little and continued, "Anyway, I don't want to talk about them. I want to talk about you."

My guard went up. "What do you want to know? There's really nothing to tell."

"Everyone has something to tell… or to hide," he rejoined. "Okay, if you don't want to talk about yourself, tell me about Starkhaven. What's it like? Snowy? Swampy? Mountain-y?"

"It's nice, I suppose," I replied with a shrug, as if the topic was dull. "It's the largest city in the Free Marches, an independent city-state, like most of the major cities there. The only one ruled by a prince. Located north of Kirkwall on a river. Flat plains to the south, a few hills to the northwest… That's about it."

"Great, I can draw a map from that information alone. You'll spare me the population count, I trust? Aside from its location, what was special about it? What do you remember most fondly?"

"Nothing, really," I said. I wished he would drop the subject.

"You miss nothing about your homeland? That's unusual. Alright then, what was it that made you want to leave and come to Ferelden? You have no family here, and you haven't mentioned having friends or any type of connection to this land."

"Do you have a problem with me being here, Alistair?" I was purposely being evasive, and he wasn't having it.

"No Winter, I'm glad you're here. I simply want to know why you're so closed off that you won't speak of Starkhaven, even to me. I thought we were close."

"We _are_ close…"

"Then out with it," he insisted. "Open up to me. Show some trust, the way I've trusted you."

Why was he doing this? And why now, so soon after Sebastian's letter. The letter I threw in the fire. Come to think of it, there was no sign of charred paper in the campfire when I sat by it later that night.

"You read my letter, didn't you?" He looked uncomfortable. He deserved to, and I wasn't going to let him off easily. "You had no right to read my personal messages. I've never pried into your life and you shouldn't pry into mine."

"I know. You're right, I shouldn't have done it," he admitted. "It wasn't mere nosiness. As I've told you before, I worry about you, Winter. You have a self-destructive streak that makes you reckless, and I've had to wonder why, and what made you care so little for your life." His tone softened, and he finished, "I care very much about your life. This may sound silly or it may be too soon, but I've come to… care for you. I can't think of you as just a friend any longer, because you've become dear to me."

How could I stay angry with him now, after he'd just bared his heart? "I care about you too, Alistair. I'm not sure where it will lead, if it goes anywhere, but you've become dear to me also."

His amber eyes took on a shine that indicated I might have given him more hope than I had the right to give anyone, in my emotionally damaged state. My heart wasn't as hard as it was months ago, but I would probably never return to the person I was in Starkhaven. Whether I was capable of loving another man as I'd once loved Sebastian wasn't something I wanted to consider.

"I'm sorry, you know," he said. "I'm sorry you had your heart broken. You deserve much better."

"That's not entirely why I left Starkhaven," I replied. Why keep it in any longer, and why keep it from Alistair? If he cared for me as much as he said—and I believed he did—he deserved to know the whole truth. "Do you remember the things the Guardian said to me when we went to find the urn?" I began. He nodded. I told him about how my relationship with Sebastian ended, how and why I was imprisoned, and why I was exiled from Starkhaven for life.

"Maker," he commented when I'd finished. "I wouldn't have guessed… How could anyone be so cruel? He should have known better than to try to hold on to you and his vocation at the same time. I suppose he felt if he couldn't have you for himself, he'd make sure no one else could get near you. Possessive bastard. He doesn't deserve to be in the chantry. Taking out his frustration on you was reprehensible." He thought on it and added, "I imagine that's the sin against you that he was referring to in his letter?"

"Who knows?" I shrugged. "Sebastian was always a hot-tempered man. Quick to anger and just as quick to forget. The chantry changed him. He became too obsessed with Andraste. From the way he spoke, he put her equal to the Maker in importance. Maybe that's what the chantry teaches, but I don't believe it's so."

"Well, that explains how you could destroy Andraste's ashes without a qualm," he said dryly. "I thought you were being practical."

"I _was_ being practical," I shot back. "Do you think I was getting back at the 'other woman' when I did that? Don't be foolish. I destroyed the ashes because of the cultists, and because I believed there were more of them somewhere who would eventually flock to the mountain to guard their pet dragon or pray to it or whatever they do in that cult. Devout people making pilgrimages to the urn would be murdered, and for what? To see a statue, an urn, and maybe take a peek inside the urn to see a dead woman's ashes? It hardly seemed worth dying for."

"I can't argue with that logic," he agreed. "So what happens to us now?"

"What's changed? You know my past, that's all."

"No, that's not all," he frowned. "I think I told you, in a roundabout way, that I'm falling in love with you."

"Oh…" I didn't want to hear the word "love". Words like "care" and "dear" were allowed; "love" was still a sore subject. I didn't know what to say and I didn't want to hurt him.

"I see," he said. His sadness pierced me like a dagger. "You care, but not in the same way I care for you. I should have known not to get my expectations too high." He rose from the table. "Let's get back to camp."

"Wait," I stopped him. "Hear me out, please." He sat, and I explained as best I could. "I trusted too soon and too much, and that trust was betrayed. Trust doesn't come easily to me any more." I paused and chose my words carefully. "Being around you for these past months has restored some of the joy I once had in living. I have come to think highly of you, Alistair, more than any man I've known in a long time. I truly care for you, but caring for someone scares me more than the thought of being overwhelmed by darkspawn. I'm not ready to risk my heart again. Not now, not yet, and certainly not with the blight looming over us.

"I am beyond flattered that a man as handsome and as wonderful as you cares for me. You _are_ dear to me. But please, be patient with me and let's see where this leads. In time, after the blight is ended, we can see if there's a future for us. If that's not acceptable, I won't be offended if you choose to find someone else."

His smile was almost reproachful, but still charming. "Dear Winter, haven't you been listening? I don't want anyone else. I didn't expect this to happen, but it _has_ happened, and I don't regret my feelings for you. I've waited all my life; I can wait until the blight is over. Maker willing, you will be my first and only love."

I didn't know how to respond. I was deeply touched, but also apprehensive. I simply lowered my eyes and stopped talking. What more was there to say?

"It's very late, you know," he said. "Too late to start back for camp. Plus we've both had a rough go of it in the forest. Let's get a couple of rooms here at the inn and sleep, then get an early start in the morning. Or a late start, if you prefer." Evidently, since he'd gotten over his earlier tiff, the thought of rushing back to camp at night wasn't so appealing. Sleeping in Denerim was a good idea. We weren't at our fighting best, and night travel was too dangerous with darkspawn lurking between the city and our camp.

Being the gentleman that he was, he walked me to my door, which was down the hall, a few yards from our table. His room was next to mine. He opened the door for me, leaned in to make sure there were no monsters lurking in the sitting area of the suite—which was surprisingly nice for a dump like the Gnawed Noble—and pronounced it safe. Then he hesitated.

"Something wrong?" I asked. "You said it was safe. And remember, I'm well armed."

"No… No, nothing's wrong. Good night, Winter." His downcast demeanor said otherwise.

"How thoughtless of me," I said, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

He smiled tenderly, and I don't believe he ever looked more handsome than he did then. His eyes sparkled with golden highlights. "Good night, my dear," he whispered. Then he left.

We ate a hearty breakfast the next morning, after having slept hours longer than I'd planned. After a quick look through the shops and a visit to Brother Genetivi, we headed for camp.

When we arrived, we learned that everyone assumed we were involved. Bohdan had seen us together when he went to restock at Gorim's stall in Denerim, and when we didn't return until morning, he figured we'd slept together at the inn. He wasted no time in spreading the rumor. Alistair wasn't fazed by the gossip, but I was angry and embarrassed. I'd been raised with a stricter moral code than what I'd lived, and far stricter than what I'd witnessed in my companions—Alistair being the one exception. Still, we made no secret of our close friendship any longer. The giggles they heard coming from my tent weren't due to playful passion, but because we'd discovered that Leliana was sleeping with Zevran.

"That's sure evidence that she's not too selective. I thought she preferred women," Alistair commented. "Not that I'm judging, mind you, but she hasn't shown interest in men since she joined us."

"I imagine she had many lovers in Orlais," I guessed. "She certainly didn't learn her fighting skills from the revered mother. She had another life before the chantry."

"A rather frisky life," Alistair put in. "Best of both worlds, is it?"

"Not so different from Zevran," I said. "You see how he looks at Aiden."

"Ugh. Yes. Creepy. Maybe it has to do with them both being assassins. She was a bard, after all, and they do a lot of that sort of thing." He arched an eyebrow. "She had her sights on you for a long time, did you know that? I used to think you resisted my charms because of her."

"What? Are you crazy? I tolerate her because we need an archer of her skills, not… Oh, you really _are_ a royal bastard! You're trying to get under my skin."

"You can't blame a fellow for trying," he smiled.

* * *

Part 3 - Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves

Leliana was a bard—a spy, an assassin, a thief—who had bedded many men and women in order to gain their trust, if it helped her to fulfill a contract. Like Zevran, she sometimes killed for pay. Also like him, she was often required to seduce her marks. Their similarities ended there.

She was the protégé of Val Royeaux's most notorious bard-master. Marjolaine took Leliana in when she was in her mid-teens and schooled her in the fine art of rogue-style fighting, and the not-so-fine but effective art of fighting dirty. The bard-master seduced the inexperienced girl and used her well-practiced charms to control her. For years, they were the most successful and highest paid bards in the city, if not in all of Orlais.

Unlike Marjolaine, Leliana had a conscience. Guilt was a liability in the bard trade. Self-doubt and questioning orders got bards killed or arrested. Leliana had become expendable. Marjolaine set her young lover up to be apprehended by the Denerim guard and charged with espionage. The corrupt guard captain and his men brutally abused her. If not for the intervention of a chantry mother, she would have died in the guardhouse dungeon.

She found a measure of peace when she became an initiate. While in the Denerim chantry, lonely Leliana developed an inappropriate attachment to the chantry mother, her benefactor. For both their sakes, the mother had the emotionally scarred girl transferred to Lothering. Almost a decade later, Leliana still hadn't taken her vows. She wasn't sure why, but she wasn't ready to make the final commitment.

Her life became much more fulfilling when the Grey Wardens accepted her as a companion. Instead of contemplation and prayers, she could use her fighting skills again—skills she had honed to perfection when she could elude the watchful eyes of senior chantry sisters. She was unequalled in Val Royeaux at archery—a skill Marjolaine hadn't fully appreciated. But Winter recognized her skill, and Leliana was grateful to her lovely new leader.

Lovely, but cold and unapproachable, like her name. Winter. How appropriate. Leliana was more drawn to the seductive Morrigan, but the apostate was more distant than Winter. She feared involvement with a man. She'd never had a real relationship with one. They were either her marks or her abusers. Neither of the women she desired wanted her. She was alone.

_Marjolaine. Winter. Morrigan. Maybe it's the nature of beautiful, dark-haired women to be cruel._

She had drawn guard duty again. With Winter and Alistair away, she and Aiden had to take more turns on watch. She sat by the campfire, warming her hands and thinking over the events that led her here, to the camp in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by companions who didn't seem to care much for her as a person. To Winter, she was a set of skills; to Alistair, a nuisance. Aiden paid her no attention whatsoever unless they were battling darkspawn together, and even then his attentiveness was limited to the battle. Morrigan despised her, maybe more than she hated Alistair. Sten and Shale didn't even count as people.

"May I join you?"

She glanced up, startled out of her thoughts. It was Zevran, the handsome Antivan Crow. She'd had brushes with the Crows in Orlais. They weren't as skilled as Orlesian bards, but they were persistent enough to pursue their marks until the kill was made.

"If you like," she replied.

Zevran sat beside her and began making small talk. He kept the conversation general and focused on things that would arouse her interest. Before long, she was smiling and chatting excitedly, laughing at some of his comments—none of which were in the least suggestive.

They discussed, of all things, different methods of assassination. Zevran revealed that he always coated his blades with poison. Sometimes he poisoned their drinks too. "It's an extra service I provide for my clients," he said. "A little courtesy, free of charge."

"Do you make your own poisons?" Leliana was spellbound. She didn't realize he was so talented. When he failed to kill Winter and Alistair, they all presumed he was incompetent. He wasn't. The wardens were just far better fighters than he and his hired assistants.

"You didn't use it when you attacked Winter?"

He snorted in wry amusement. "I did, but she avoided my blades and had me out cold on the ground before I knew what had hit me. An excellent fighter, she." Having answered her question, he returned the conversation to himself. "I have my own poison recipe," he confided. "It took me months to perfect, and it's instantly lethal."

"I'm jealous," she pouted. "I have little skill with poisons. I wish I'd had a recipe like yours."

Zevran laughed. "No need to be jealous, my dear. I'll gladly teach you how to make it, on one condition."

"What condition?"

"Well, since you are so agreeable, let's make it two conditions."

"What conditions?" she repeated impatiently.

Zev had her where he wanted her. She was like ripe fruit waiting to be picked. "First, that you tell no one the recipe. Are we agreed?"

"Absolutely, yes," she nodded. "And the second condition?"

He cocked his head and regarded her with his golden eyes, using an expression that others found appealing. She blinked a couple of times. She liked the way he looked at her. "The second condition is… No, I cannot ask it of you. You would think it improper. I shall take my leave." He made as if to rise, but her hand shot out and gripped his wrist. _Perfect._

"No, please don't go," she said. "I've enjoyed our talk, and I'm sure whatever you wanted to ask of me isn't improper. You've been… well, I never thought you would be such a gentleman."

"Thank you, gracious lady. If that is true, would you bestow a kiss upon a lonely gentleman? Just a kiss from a beautiful woman. That is all I ask."

She hesitated. Should she? He was handsome, and he was lonely like she was. What harm was there in a kiss? "A kiss, and no more." She leaned toward him. He reached up, took her face in his hands, and brought his lips to hers in a slow, maddening tease before giving her a deep kiss, the kind that had earned him a lot of coin and had lulled his marks into an erotic stupor. He lingered as long as he dared, not wanting to push her too fast. Things were going exactly according to plan. He couldn't ruin it now. He broke the kiss with the same slowness with which he'd started it—another trademark move.

"Oh my," she whispered. He was still so close she could feel his body heat radiating from his lips—those incredibly gifted lips. She grabbed him and pulled him close for another kiss. He obliged her with a sense of satisfaction. He wouldn't have to sleep alone that night. She drew back and said breathlessly, "My watch is almost over. Sten and Shale are standing guard. Would you come to my tent?"

The naïve woman couldn't read the smugness in his smile. "It would be an honor and a pleasure."

From his post, Sten scoffed with disgust when he saw the pair dart into the human woman's tent. "Pointless breeding exercise," he muttered.

"You can say that again," Shale responded.

Sten looked around at him. "Why would I wish to repeat it?"


	7. A Leak at the Peak

A Game of Thorns – A Leak at the Peak

Part 1 – The Exorcism of Sophia Rose

* * *

One morning I found a stranger in our camp. Aiden was vigilant and no one could have slipped past him unnoticed, but he had better have a good explanation for letting someone in our camp without my say. I walked toward the man to find out who he was and why he'd come to us. Aiden intercepted me on the way.

"Winter, good morning," he greeted cheerfully. My stony silence didn't douse his mood in the least. "This fellow, Levi something, I forgot his last name, he said Duncan made him a promise. He wants to talk to you. I didn't get all the details from him, but it sounds like a grand adventure."

"Slow down," I cautioned. "Let me find out what this is about, then we'll see if we can help him or if you need to throw your new friend out." I would speak to Aiden later about letting people in on his own authority. Right now, I needed to learn more of this stranger and the alleged promise.

It sounded legitimate. The man, Levi Dryden, and his family had been friends of Duncan's. Before the darkspawn attack, Duncan had promised to help Levi clear his great-great grandmother's name. She was Sophia Dryden, once the warden-commander of Ferelden and leader of the wardens' old base at Soldier's Peak. Because it was something Duncan had wanted to do, I felt we should fulfill his promise. Alistair would appreciate a chance to participate in something his mentor had wanted to do.

"I'll gather a party and we'll be there as soon as possible," I told Levi. Aiden, who had done the right thing after all, would come along on the excursion. Alistair, Zevran, and Morrigan made up the rest of the party. Maybe with Aiden along, it would minimize the friction between Alistair and Morrigan. Their verbal jabs were tiresome and Morrigan was relentless. Aiden provided a good distraction and she was less inclined to be vindictive with him around.

Soldier's Peak was located in the far north of Ferelden between Amaranthine and Highever. It was awe-inspiring from a distance, rising from the snowy hills like an ornate stone sentry. In its day, it could just as easily have housed a king and his court as an army of Grey Wardens.

Levi waited for us at the base of the hill upon which the Peak stood. As soon as we set foot on the grounds, we were arrested by a vision of soldiers. They were talking about taking the Peak, cutting off supplies, and starving the wardens out to win the battle. A reasonable strategy, but these soldiers had died four generations ago. How was I seeing and hearing them? I wasn't the only one who had the vision. The entire party and Levi saw and heard the same things I did.

"What was that?" Levi asked with a tremor in his voice. "What's going on?"

"Magic," Alistair answered grimly.

"Blood magic," Morrigan agreed.

"Let's find out who's behind it," I said, and walked on.

In the great hall of the Peak, we got another vision. This one was of Sophia Dryden, giving a pre-battle speech to her wardens, followed by a third vision of her in the midst of battle, ordering her mage to "do whatever it takes." That "whatever" was shocking. Warden-Commander Dryden had instructed or allowed her mages to use blood magic to summon demons to fight for them. Demons, being evil by nature, wouldn't do the bidding of a mage or a Grey Warden. They turned on the wardens and possessed Sophia, her wardens, and the enemy. The Peak was lost, and now, it was haunted by the undead.

We found Sophia's office and went inside. There, to our disbelieving eyes, was Sophia Dryden, her back to us, gazing at a painting behind her desk. She turned to us, her face blackened and distorted, like a corpse whose decomposition had been interrupted.

"Step no further, Warden," it commanded me. "This one would speak with you."

"A nice cozy chat with a demon? I can hardly wait," I smirked.

The possessed Sophia wanted to make a deal. She would mend the tear in the veil between the material world and the Fade, through which demons were entering our realm, in exchange for her freedom. "Your freedom? Do you plan to roam about in Sophia Dryden's rotting corpse?"

"This one will take another host," it replied. "The Dryden is failing, and will turn to ash when this one leaves its body. Mortals are so frail."

"I would take it up on its offer, if I were you," Morrigan confided. "Only a demon or a blood mage has the power to mend the veil. Such a thing is beyond the scope of my abilities."

"Your subordinate speaks the truth," the Dryden-demon confirmed. "Without this one's help, the veil cannot be mended."

"Fine, you can go, but first you'll have to mend the veil."

Alistair stared at me, unsure if he'd heard me right. "Did you just agree to let a demon loose?"

"I did," I answered. I gave him a meaningful look that I hoped he could read. "It's for the best."

He missed my nonverbal message. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"There is something else," the Dryden thing said. "Once I mend the veil you must clear the Peak. There are demons and undead that cannot continue."

"Agreed," I said. "Mend the veil."

It began some sort of spellcasting ritual. Almost immediately, demons appeared in the room. We killed them all, and the Dryden-demon pronounced the veil mended and strong.

"Go to the tower," it said. "Kill everything there, then return."

"I have a better idea," I said. "I'd hate to have to double back needlessly when I can kill you here and now."

"Deceiver!" it cried. "This one will crush you."

"_This_ one won't stand for that," I rejoined, drawing my swords. Alistair, Aiden, and Zevran drew their blades and Morrigan pelted the demon with ice. It was dead in seconds. As its host body decayed, so did its power, and it didn't have the strength to ward off Morrigan's most basic spell, much less seven sharp blades. As it predicted, Sophia's corpse collapsed into a pile of ash.

"Damn nice armor," Aiden observed.

We gathered the pieces of Sophia's armor and set them by the exit, then went to the tower, killing undead and walking skeletons along the way. In the back room of the tower, we found an old mage. _Very_ old. He looked familiar.

"I believe it's Sophia Dryden's mage Avernus," I said to my companions. Levi kept a safe distance from anything that looked dangerous, which was everything in the Peak so far.

"I'm not so old that I don't know who I am," the old man retorted. "Did you make a deal with the demon in the Peak? I see the veil has been mended."

I didn't feel I owed him any answers, but instead asked him, "How have you survived so long? Are you possessed too?"

"No, I'm not possessed. I've kept myself alive with spells and potions."

"Ah yes, blood magic. There's nothing quite like extending your years by stealing the lives of others, is there?" I remarked cynically. "I'm glad you stayed long enough for me to ask you why you summoned demons, and used Grey Wardens for your sadistic experiments."

"So you've read my journal? Then you know why. I did whatever was needed to win."

"That's not entirely true," I said. "Your experiments killed almost as many men as were killed in the war. And in case you weren't aware, the Peak was lost. You're a murderer, Avernus, and you'll die for your crimes."

Morrigan objected. "Is that always the rule? To kill a blood mage on sight?"

I leaned to Aiden and whispered, "I'll give you the night off watch duty if you can put an arrow through that old frog's head."

"Done," he answered. He slid his bow off his shoulder, grabbed an arrow, and before Avernus could cast a protective ward, he sent the arrow through the old man's forehead.

"Wow," Alistair said. "Nice shot."

"And you thought Leliana was the only archer in the camp," Aiden boasted. He'd earned that boast.

"Yes Aiden, great work," Morrigan jeered. "You murdered an old man."

"It's not murder," he replied. "I took out the trash."

"I guess that night off will come in handy," I said to Aiden, and received a roguish grin in return. His affair with Morrigan was known but he never spoke of it. One thing was sure: he had to tread lightly to stay on her good side regardless of what she may have felt for him. I turned to Levi and said, "The Peak is yours to use for now. Just know that it remains Grey Warden property."

"Much obliged," he answered. It was the first words he'd spoken since we entered the Peak. He was still frightened, but was slowly coming to terms with the things he'd seen. "It's too bad Sophia turned out to be as guilty as the stories said she was. But now we know the truth." He looked around at the cobwebs and broken skeletons. "I guess I should get busy cleaning and repairing around here. If the wardens ever return, it will be in fine shape."

"That was invigorating," Zevran remarked. "I must say, dear Warden, I did not think you so ruthless as to make a bargain with a demon. You would make an excellent Crow."

"Or so I have been told," I replied, imitating his accent and quoting a line he used too often. He either didn't notice or didn't care for my humor. I could see Alistair out of the corner of my eye, smiling at my mimicry. I continued (in my normal accent), "As for my bargain, I never intended to keep my end and let that thing go free. I made an empty promise to a spirit that wasn't smart enough to know I was lying. You, of all people, should be familiar with the usefulness of deceit."

"Indeed I am, and I applaud you for that as well."

My actions were hardly praiseworthy, but I wasn't inclined to discuss them with the likes of Zev. He had grown on me in the past weeks, but his methods and mine were as different as our philosophies. He believed two things to be of foremost importance: sex and coin. I believed as all Grey Wardens did—that duty came before anything else, including and especially personal pleasure and monetary gain. With that in mind, I helped gather up the loot and carry it to camp.

Monetary gain was one thing; keeping my party well-equipped was another. I handed Morrigan a powerful new staff, which she snatched from my hands so eagerly I thought she might have taken some of my skin with it. I was tempted to check my palms to make sure they were intact. I offered her Avernus' robes, which were enchanted with more spellpower than her skimpy top and leather skirt, but she refused it. It was more suited to a blood mage, she said. Knowing that, I tossed it into the campfire.

Alistair tried on the warden-commander armor. He looked incredible in it, and it provided him a lot more protection than his old scale armor. In one of his classic moments of idiotic banter, he asked, "Are you sure it doesn't make my butt look too big? Sophia had quite an arse on her."

"I'm not even going to try to answer that one," I sighed. "It's been a long, tough mission, and this warden needs her rest." Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Aiden.

"Forget something?" he smiled.

"Ohh," I groaned. I was fatigued, but I had given my word. "I'm sorry, Aiden; it slipped my mind. Of course you have the night off and I'll stand watch. Go enjoy yourself, or whatever it is you do."

"It's ok boss, I'll take my shift. Go rest and we'll make it up another time."

"No, I made a promise and I intend to keep it. Go. I'll be fine."

We passed it back and forth until it almost became an argument. Alistair stepped in. "If you two are going to act like children, I'll take watch and you can both go to your tents."

"When I gave him the night off, it wasn't to push the duty onto someone else," I protested.

"I said _go_," he repeated firmly. "As senior warden, that's an order." He must have been put off with us. He had never pulled rank before. Or maybe the armor had an effect on him.

"Yes, warden-commander," I said. I left the men outside and went to my tent. In a couple of minutes, I had stripped off my armor, stretched out on my bedroll, pulled a light blanket up to my chin, and dozed off.

* * *

Part 2 - Truth or Dare

My sleep was disturbed by dreams of Redcliffe. I envisioned the castle, not as we left it but crawling with the undead. My party wasn't with me so I had to fight them alone. The Guerrin brothers were in danger, and if I didn't reach them soon, the monsters would overpower and kill them. The hallway was long, and the more I ran toward them, the further away they seemed to be. Each door that lined the corridor opened, and undead rushed toward me. When I arrived at the last door before I would enter the room where the Guerrins were fighting for their lives, a large number of undead rushed out at me. I fought as hard as I could, swinging both swords with lethal accuracy, and finally putting the last of them down, but not soon enough. Eamon fell, pierced through the heart, before I could help him. The monsters turned their sights on Teagan. There were more of them than any one person could fight off.

The last thing I saw was Teagan as he glanced up with an expression I couldn't read. Remorse, defeat, reproach? I'd failed Eamon, and now I would fail him. A monster stood behind him, sword poised to run him through. I tried to warn him but couldn't form sound. I tried anyway, silently calling out to him and running toward him with all my strength, but to no avail.

Something touched my shoulder and I sat up with a gasp of terror. Alistair embraced my trembling body and spoke in soothing tones. "Shh… it's alright, I'm here. You were having a nightmare. Dreaming of Redcliffe by the way it sounded. You called out Teagan's name. Were you reliving the fight you had with him?" I shook my head, unable to put the dream into words as it began to recede from memory. What lingered was a fear that the Guerrin brothers were again in danger.

"On the way to Orzammar, I want to stop by Redcliffe," I said. "I know it was only a dream, but I'd like to see for myself that Eamon and Teagan are alright."

"Of course we'll go," he agreed. "Just so you know, sometimes brushes with demons, like the ones we encountered at Soldier's Peak, can bring on nightmares. They feed upon our past experiences and distort them to plant fear in our dreams."

"Right, because Grey Wardens don't have enough trouble sleeping without the archdemon sticking his ugly face in our dreams," I retorted.

He agreed. "Will you be alright now? I should get back to my watch. Zevran is out there and I still don't trust him."

"He's not a threat, Alistair. He's just a little unusual."

"That's putting it mildly," he said, exiting my tent.

Sleeping was out of the question for now. I was still not fully rested, but I didn't want to have a repeat of that nightmare. Maybe some fresh air would help. Unwilling to put on the cumbersome armor, I wrapped my blanket over my linen undertunic and stepped out of the tent. Zevran sat by the fire on an old crate. He looked up at my approach.

"You're up rather early," he smiled. "Always ready for more adventure, yes?"

"Not tonight," I smiled back, pulling another crate near his and sitting for a chat. "What's your excuse? I thought you would be sleeping or… something."

"I would prefer to be doing 'something,' as you call it, but it whets the appetite when the diner is made to wait, yes?" he said, referring to the way he kept Leliana interested by withholding his attentions.

I caught the amused glint in his eye and said, "You're full of shit, you know that?"

"Of course I know it," he grinned. "It's part of my irresistible charm, is it not?"

For once, I knew he was joking. True, he had an inflated idea of his allure and he made too many references to his prowess, but I'd learned to ignore them. It took some time to get past his wall of braggadocio to find his serious side. "She kicked you out, didn't she?" I guessed.

"Temporarily," he answered. "Leliana is a lovely woman, but she is more needy than the women I am accustomed to. She wants something I cannot give, and she wants to give me something I do not want."

"And that is…?"

"Love. What a foolish notion, yes? What exactly is love? How can a person distinguish love from admiration or friendship?" He glanced over at Alistair. "What of you and the other warden? Isn't it enough to enjoy each other as men and women, the way the Maker intended, without the added burden of an elusive emotion?"

"Oh, so the Maker intended people to go from one lover to the next, did He? That's the first I've heard of it."

"Who is to say He didn't intend it? Surely you don't believe yourself to be in love with Alistair."

"Maybe I do," I answered guardedly.

His cockiness vanished, and he spoke to me earnestly, even compassionately if I was reading him right. "Dear Warden, I have made my living, and stayed alive, by studying people. I see how Alistair looks at you. He has what you Fereldans call 'puppy eyes' whenever you're around." I stifled a snicker, and he went on, "You do not have puppy eyes. You are cautious, and that is wise in any relationship."

"I… I care for Alistair very much," I faltered.

"I have no doubt of it, but you do not feel the same for him that he feels for you."

His comment bothered me. I didn't want to examine my feelings for Alistair. What we had was (and I keep using this word) comfortable, and as long as he didn't expect too much too soon from me, our relationship was a good one. It was time to change the subject. "Tell me about Antiva," I requested.

Zev's tone took on a hint of melancholy. "Antiva is a beautiful country, not brown and dirty and cold like Ferelden. Tell me, did you find it so when you came from Starkhaven?"

"Truthfully, I didn't pay much attention to the land when I arrived. I was in Highever, and it was green and pleasant. The plains are somewhat bland, though."

"Maybe that is why they are called '_plains'_?" he proffered. "I jest, and I confess it was a weak one." It wasn't his joke, but his realization that it was a lame one that made it funny. Our laughter drew some sharp looks. One from Alistair, who clearly didn't approve of me talking to Zev. Another was from Leliana, who poked her head out of her tent, saw us talking together and, giving an exaggerated huff, retreated back inside. Zev paid her no attention. Neither did I. Wynne peeked out of her tent, too, and drew back with a disapproving scowl. I'd just about forgotten she was in our camp.

"They must think us quite a handsome couple if so many of our companions wish to admire us," Zev joked, and this time I cackled out loud, having to clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle the sound lest I woke everyone else up. His expression softened and he said, "I don't believe I have seen you laugh before. It's a shame for such a lovely woman to be so serious. And before you get that suspicious look, it is merely a compliment, not an attempt to bed you. Unless you think I have a chance…" he ended with a wink, letting me know it wasn't a serious proposition.

"No chance at all," I said, stating my stance but without indignation. "You were going to tell me about Antiva?" He entertained me with tales and descriptions of his country for an hour. He was homesick, and I felt sorry for him. I didn't miss Starkhaven but I'd left it under duress after false imprisonment; he'd left Antiva willingly, to do a contract. _My_ contract, specifically.

"You do not wish to speak of your home, and I will respect your wishes. If I may ask, however, how did you learn your fighting skills? Were you in the military or the guard?"

"No, but my father was in both," I answered. "He taught me with wooden swords from my youth, and when I got older, I graduated to real swords, daggers, and bows. I favor the longsword, as you've seen."

"And you wield them with painful precision," he said, wincing and rubbing an imaginary wound on his shoulder. "He must have been quite the warrior, your father."

"He was," I replied quietly.

Zevran, who dealt in death, offered no sympathy for my loss. He didn't understand loss as most people did, and as far as I knew, had never mourned for anyone. He also avoided romantic entanglements, keeping his relationships on a superficial level. In a way, I envied his capacity to remain detached. Friendship was sufficient, and he valued loyalty, but love? He had no use for it.

"You know Zev, I just remembered a couple of things I found in our travels that I've been meaning to give to you," I said, recalling the fine Antivan leather boots and Dalish gloves. I thought he might appreciate something from his homeland, and something from the bloodline he denied. "I'll be right back."

"I can help you carry them," he offered. "Let me accompany you to your tent."

"Nice try," I said, turning back to see him smiling with one of those "I fooled you" looks. He was quite the character when one got to chat with him, I thought. I found the items and went back.

"Antivan leather!" he exclaimed when he saw the boots. They were black leather, and of very fine make. I hoped they were his size. "I meant to purchase a pair like these before I left Antiva. They are magnificent. Thank you."

"There's another thing…" I handed him the Dalish gloves.

"Gloves? Well, they will come in handy in cold weather."

"Take a closer look," I said. "Those are Dalish gloves." He recalled that he once had a pair like those that belonged to his mother—the only thing he had of hers. An orphanage worker stole them, just before they sold him to the Crows.

"Tell me about the Crows," I urged. "What was it like being a child, living among assassins?"

We talked for a couple of hours. He'd led a difficult but interesting life, and for all the problems and dangers he had faced, he wasn't angry with his abusers or bitter about his lot in life. He accepted it all, saying that none of us had trouble-free pasts.

"Take yourself, for example. You left Starkhaven but you never speak of it. By your silence, you tell me that what you left behind was too painful or unpleasant to endure." He was partly right. It was more than I could endure, but I wasn't given a choice whether to stay or leave.

"I prefer to leave the past behind me and look ahead," I said. "One can't go back and change what has happened, but we can choose where we go from there."

"Some of us can," he reminded me. "I am still your prisoner."

"Zev, I won't hold you to your oath if you want to go. Our path is going to take us into a war that isn't your war, and you should have the choice to go to safety."

"Magnanimous and gorgeous," he observed. "You are rare, my dear warden. Now that I am free to choose, I choose to stay. It is preferable to die for a worthy cause than to run like a coward, yes?"

"Yes," I agreed, glad to have him along. At last we had reached a level of trust and friendship. I smiled impishly. "As confirmation of your new status as a full-fledged member, I'll put you on watch rotation." I stood, hoping to try to get a few hours' sleep before we headed for Redcliffe and Orzammar.

"I am yours to command," he said, rising like a gentleman in a lady's presence.

"There is hope for you yet, my little assassin," I remarked. "And if you want to come along to Orzammar, I'd advise you to use your night off from 'something'-ing to get some sleep. I'll need you at your best. We don't know what we'll find there. Or along the way."

"Winter," he halted me before I could return to my tent. "I'm glad you came out and talked with me. I've enjoyed getting to know you a little better. Alistair is a lucky man to have such a wise partner."

"Partner," I repeated, turning the word over in my mind. "I prefer 'companion'. It sounds less… confining."

"Ah, there is nothing more attractive than a beautiful, independent woman," he sighed. "Except, perhaps, a beautiful, independent woman who is also promiscuous."

"Good night, Zevran," I said, dismissing his comment as I would a child's unintended rudeness. I wasn't angry, but I wouldn't encourage his attentions either.


	8. Dear Agony (Suffer Slowly)

Dear Agony (Suffer Slowly)

* * *

"What are we to do, Bann Teagan? These creatures appear out of nowhere, without warning. I have to keep my sword on night and day." The others in the meeting murmured in agreement.

"As we all should," Teagan advised.

Small bands of darkspawn were appearing all around Ferelden, from the eastern seashore to the Frostback Mountains in the west. Rainesfere sat between the mountains and Lake Calenhad, northwest of Redcliffe, on a small cape that jutted into the lake on its western shore. The quiet bannorn had experienced an attack the previous week. Aware that this was a blight, but not wanting to frighten his people with such dire news before the time came to act against the darkspawn in force, Teagan had summoned all the village leaders to his estate. He gave them instructions on how to safeguard themselves and their families. Never travel alone, carry a weapon at all times, arm sons and wives, and if the number of monsters was too much to handle, run to safety. That was the best he could do for them without an army to defend his bannorn.

"The Grey Wardens are working to help us," he assured them. "Even now…"

"The Grey Wardens?" one of the men echoed. "Didn't they all die at Ostagar?"

"Another of Loghain's lies," Teagan said grimly. "Don't believe anything you hear from Denerim as long as he is regent. He tried to kill them all off but I know of three who survived."

The bannorn had heard the truth about Loghain's treason from him when he first returned from the landsmeet after the Ostagar massacre. They were opposed to Loghain, as he was. Having now also heard that the regent was complicit in Arl Eamon's poisoning, they were avid supporters of Alistair in his bid for the throne. Ferelden did well under Maric and Cailan, and they felt Alistair would make a better ruler than Anora.

The door opened and Teagan's steward asked permission to enter. Teagan motioned him in. He spoke in hushed tones to his bann. "You have visitors, my lord. The Grey Wardens Alistair and Winter have just arrived. Shall I have them wait in your study?"

"Take them to the sitting room," Teagan said, controlling his excitement, "and serve them refreshments. Tell the cook to prepare a meal and tell her I have guests. Have the maids ready two rooms for them." The man bowed and retreated to carry out Teagan's orders.

Teagan closed out the meeting and saw the townsmen to the door while his steward tended to the guests. He was curious as to why they'd come, and why only the two of them instead of their usual party of four or five. Could something be wrong? Had Loghain found someone else to accomplish what Isolde failed to do against Eamon? Or had the traitorous regent started his civil war in earnest? Had they news of the blight? Was it progressing faster than they could raise a large enough army to combat it? Unease gnawed at the pit of his stomach.

A couple of the townsmen lingered with questions, and he patiently answered as best he could in his distracted state of mind. It was a repeat of what he'd told them in the meeting. Stay alert, stay armed, watch out for their neighbors, or run for safety. Satisfied that their bann was doing all he could to assist them, they left.

He hurried to his sitting room, the most luxuriously furnished room in his estate. Far better than his comparatively stark, impersonal study for such special guests, he thought. He wished, just for this occasion, that he lived in as fine a place as Redcliffe Castle. He thought his estate more than adequate for a moderately wealthy man like himself, but today it didn't seem good enough for such guests as the future king and the woman who'd consumed his thoughts since he met her.

The steward had closed the sitting room's heavy oaken double doors to keep out the drafts. He'd stoked the fireplace and the room was pleasantly warm. Teagan entered, and his guests rose to greet him.

"Sit, please," he urged them. "Haven't the servants brought you anything to eat and drink? Forgive my lax hospitality. I'll see to it at once. Your rooms should be ready if you'd care to rest a while before dinner."

"Teagan, relax. It's only us," Alistair laughed.

"That's gracious of you, Teagan, but we hadn't intended to stay long," Winter answered.

"Winter, welcome to Rainesfere," he said. "I do hope you'll stay at least overnight. You two look like you could use a good night's sleep."

"Thanks a lot," Alistair joked. "Is it my hair? I thought I looked particularly dashing today."

"And so you do, Your Majesty," Teagan agreed with a good-natured bow.

"Ugh, the title makes me queasy," Alistair groaned. "Fortunately, there's a civil war and a blight between me and all that responsibility."

The maid arrived with refreshments. Alistair tore off chunks of fresh bread, layered them with thick slabs of cheese, and wolfed them down like he hadn't eaten in days. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and went for seconds and thirds.

"If I'd known you two hadn't eaten since you left your camp I would have had them bring meats instead of this light snack," Teagan said in dismay.

"We had lunch a couple of hours ago," Winter said. "That's how he always eats."

"Maker… just like when he was a boy."

Alistair smiled through his mouthful of food, making his cheeks puff out comically. Winter and Teagan laughed at his inane behavior. He went back to eating. Conversation could wait.

"What brings you this way?" Teagan asked, turning his full attention to Winter. "Not that I'm the least bit unhappy to have you here. You are always welcome in my home."

Winter looked flustered. "It's… This is going to sound silly. I don't quite know how to explain it."

"Is anything wrong? Have you news of the war or of Eamon?" Teagan prompted her. What could have her in such a state of discomfiture? She didn't look disturbed; she looked… embarrassed?

"We've just come from Redcliffe, and Eamon is fine. He sends his greetings and asked us to convey his thanks for your help," she replied, side-stepping a direct answer to exactly what brought them to his house.

"She had a dream about you," Alistair said, muffling his words by talking with a mouthful of food. "And Eamon. She said it was pretty racy."

Teagan smiled, aware that Alistair was trying to embarrass her further but unable to resist making a quip of his own. "How can I complain when a beautiful woman dreams of me? I can truthfully say I've never had that happen before. Pity that I had to share your attention with Eamon." He made a moue of distaste.

"Stop it, both of you," Winter huffed. "It was a nightmare, a frightening one, and I was worried for you and Eamon. Don't make it sound… Just don't do that."

"I liked my version better," Alistair grinned, finally sated. He let out a long, rumbling belch.

"As did I," Teagan agreed.

Winter folded her arms, looked away from them and kept quiet. She wasn't angry with them. Their banter was funny, but she was playing the game her own way. Alistair had done a good job of embarrassing her, but truth be told, she thought of Teagan occasionally and wondered how he fared after all that had happened at Redcliffe. She was relieved both he and Eamon were getting along well.

"Uncle Teagan," Alistair began, "do you remember that horse I used to ride when I visited? The black stallion with the star on his forehead?"

"Oh, so it's 'Uncle' again when you want to get to my stables, is it?" Teagan teased. "Yes, of course I remember him. His name was…"

"Midnight," Alistair cut in.

"Moonlight," Teagan corrected him. "Midnight was the name you gave him."

"I don't suppose… Of course not, it's been ages. He's long dead, I imagine."

"Sadly, yes, but I have a couple of generations of his bloodline. He was the finest horse I've ever owned, and it would have been a crime to let his line die out."

"Can I see them?" Alistair asked excitedly.

"Certainly. Winter, would you like to accompany us?"

"No thank you," she answered. She liked horses, but she abhorred the smell of stables. "I'll just wait here." She picked up her mead and took a long drink. Alistair and horses, just like Aiden and his hound. What was the attraction between men and animals? _Similar levels of intelligence,_ she thought with an inner grin.

"I can find my way there," Alistair said. "You stay here and assure Winter that you're not being stalked by undead and demons. And if I'm not right back, I'll be out riding."

"Enjoy yourself," Teagan replied, glad to have time alone with Winter. Now, how would he fill the time without making a fool of himself and spilling his feelings for her? "Well, how can I keep you amused, my dear? Would you like a tour of the house? Or of the grounds? Or the gardens? Perhaps the orchards?"

"All of them, if we have time," she replied, extending a hand for him to help her to her feet. He took it in both of his and she pulled herself from the plush chair.

"We have all the time you like," her host responded.

"Lead on," she said. "I imagine we should see the grounds first, before it gets dark."

"You're staying the night after all, then?" he asked, hoping she didn't catch how flirtatious that sounded. Her responding laughter indicated that she _had_ caught it and found it amusing.

She enjoyed being around him. He was handsomer than she remembered. His blue eyes had a sparkle that was lacking before. He smiled readily. When last they spoke he was under extreme stress, worried for Eamon and trying to protect Redcliffe. Added to that was the revelation of Isolde's treachery, Connor's possession, and Eamon's illness. Now, without the interference of demons, walking corpses, and murderers, they were relaxed and could have a pleasant visit.

They strolled through his gardens, passed by the orchards, and when he mentioned the meadery, she asked to see it. She walked all around it, touching everything, fascinated by the process and the size of the storage barrels. "Big enough to swim in," she mused. When she'd satisfied her curiosity about the meadery, they walked along the lake. Alistair rode by on a glossy black stallion, waving at them and showing off by spurring the horse to a gallop.

"He was just like that as a boy," Teagan recalled fondly. "He loved horses, especially Moonlight." He added on a more somber note, "If I'd known how badly Isolde treated him, I would have taken him rather than let her convince Eamon to send him away."

"You were practically still a boy yourself," Winter said. "He needed a maternal figure and you were unmarried. He didn't like the chantry, but it did him more good than he admits. It was just unfortunate that he felt he'd been cast aside."

"I never forgot about him," Teagan said. "I simply thought he wouldn't want to see me, and after Eamon visited the chantry and Alistair refused to talk to him, I was convinced he wanted nothing more to do with us. Then, when we were told all the Grey Wardens died at Ostagar, I was sorry I'd never made an attempt to visit him."

His regret was so profound that Winter's compassion was piqued. She halted their walk and faced him. "You have no reason to feel badly, Teagan. Alistair holds no ill feelings toward you or Eamon. If anything, he regrets his behavior when Eamon visited him. He understands why he had to go to the chantry, and he doesn't blame anyone. Not even Isolde. He has a deep admiration for you and Eamon, and he considers you both the closest thing to a family he has. So stop blaming yourself for something in the past that was out of your hands."

"I suppose you're right," he sighed.

As they strolled back toward the estate, Teagan wondered about her relationship with Alistair. She knew a lot about his life, things he wouldn't share with someone he didn't feel close to. But how close were they? Friends? More than friends? Lovers? He pushed the thought aside, content in her company and unwilling to let idle brooding spoil the day.

"The sun is setting," he pointed out. "If you still want a tour of the house, we can go inside." He didn't mention that the real reason he wanted to get her indoors was the darkspawn attack from the previous week.

"Yes, I'd like that," she agreed. "And perhaps another cup of your famous Rainesfere mead. Spiced, if you'd be so kind." She took off her weapons and settled into a chair in the sitting room. Aside from her armor, she looked completely at home in the setting.

_She looks like she belongs here. Like a wife, _Teagan thought_._

"Done," he said. "I'll be right back with your mead." In a flurry of orders, he had the cook warm some mead, sent a servant to the seamstress to purchase a dressing gown for Winter, and instructed the maids to change his linens and prepare his suite for his female guest, with three ewers of hot water and three of cold, to be brought up while they were having dinner. He would exchange rooms with her for the night without her knowledge. His bedchamber was the only one in the house with its own bath. It would give her one of the small pleasures that her life as a warden didn't allow.

Alistair came in as Teagan was bringing the two flagons of mead to the sitting room. "You read my mind," he said, taking one of the flagons and draining it. "Mmm, spiced," he commented appreciatively. "What a treat for us poor wanderers." Teagan opened the sitting room door and found Winter curled up in the chair, fast asleep.

He handed Alistair the second flagon of mead. "I don't think she'll be wanting this."

"You bored her that badly?" Alistair smiled over his drink. "It takes me days to put her to sleep with my conversation."

"What can I say in my defense? An old man's ramblings aren't as captivating as a younger man's tales of his heroism."

They sat at the far end of the room and talked quietly about the horse, the estate, and the bannorn. Teagan told him about the darkspawn attack, and Alistair's brow furrowed. "They're getting bolder," he remarked. "An ominous sign. We have to get to Orzammar as quickly as we can. That's the last of the treaties. When we've gotten their promise of troops, we can return to Arl Eamon and start making battle plans."

"The civil war is spreading our troops thin," Teagan said. "Fereldans killing other Fereldans because of one man's lust for power and control. He claims to have been a staunch supporter of Maric's, but Maric wouldn't have wanted the country divided."

"I'll wager there were a lot of things Maric wouldn't have wanted Loghain to do, the first being abandoning Cailan at Ostagar," Alistair said. "Dividing the country is just the next step in his rise to the throne. Anora is holding it for him, although she doesn't know it yet. Or maybe Loghain won't actually proclaim himself king, but with his daughter as a figurehead queen, he'll be the real power behind her."

"Either way, what he did to Cailan is treason. If Anora played any part in the conspiracy, if she even knew of it and did nothing to stop him, she's as guilty as her father." Teagan grew quiet and recalled the things Cailan had told him months ago, the last time he saw his nephew. His plan to divorce Anora and marry Empress Celene—if he truly meant to go through with it—was enough to send Loghain into a murderous rage. If Anora also knew, she might not have intervened.

Winter stirred and curled up again with a shiver. The room had grown cooler as the fire died down. Teagan got up and added more logs to the fireplace, stirring up the embers with an iron poker until they blazed. Alistair spied a woolen blanket draped over a chair, and he got it and covered his companion with it. Teagan noticed how he cared for Winter, and he wondered again at the nature of their relationship. If they were involved, any chance he may have had to win her affections was gone.

There was a light tap at the door, and a kitchen maid opened it and told Teagan that dinner would be ready within the hour. He turned to Alistair. "If you'd like to freshen up or rest before dinner, this would be a good time." He sniffed the air. "You smell like horses," he finished with a grin.

"He does, doesn't he?" Winter agreed sleepily.

"Alright, I get it, I smell bad," Alistair said. "I'll go wash up."

"The maid will show you to your room," Teagan answered, and called for the servant. "And what of you, Winter? Do you want to go upstairs also?"

"Only if I smell as badly as he does," she smiled. "Otherwise I'll wait until after dinner. Once I get in the same room with a bed, there will be no coming out until I've slept a good six hours or so." Assured she didn't reek, she shooed Alistair out of the room before he made the whole house smell like the stables. When he'd left, she said to Teagan, "I heard what you said about a darkspawn attack. For what it's worth, I haven't sensed any since we've been here."

"It's worth a great deal," Teagan said. "The townspeople were traumatized by the sight of those creatures, and for good reason. No one was hurt, but if there had been more of them, it could have been disastrous."

"We'll do our best to finish our business in Orzammar quickly. I've never dealt with dwarves before so I don't know what to expect, but the treaty is a binding agreement. It shouldn't take long to get their support. Then, as Alistair said, we can start planning."

"You heard the entire conversation?"

She chuckled. "Sleeping on the ground for months has made me a light sleeper. I'll sometimes sleep through a thunderstorm, but a whisper can wake me."

"Tell me, what is it like to be a Grey Warden? They're a secretive group."

"We are, and the reasons for secrecy are also secret," she said. "As for what it's like, I suppose it's not much different from any other soldier, except that our only targets are darkspawn. We don't get involved in political or civil fights. Grey Wardens have a specific purpose, and it's a job no one should take on lightly. It's not so much a job, per se, but a life."

"Are Grey Wardens bound to the order for life? Is there no end to your service?" He found it disturbing. "Does no one ever leave the wardens and return to their old lives?"

"I've heard some have left," she said. "I haven't known enough of them, or been a warden long enough myself, to know what others have done. Duncan was a warden for thirty years, and he never expressed a desire to return to his old life, Alistair told me. He never even talked of who he was before he became a warden. Alistair himself wouldn't quit the wardens for anything except to fulfill his role as king, and even then, he's reluctant to leave."

What had Loghain done in killing off the only warriors able to kill an archdemon and end a blight? Had he doomed Ferelden to annihilation with his power-grab? The man was arrogant, but if he thought a large army could end the blight without Grey Wardens, he was more than presumptuous. He was insane.

"Wasn't there a third warden in your party?" Teagan asked. "The young man who returned to the castle with Brother Genetivi?"

"Aiden? He went ahead to Orzammar. We'll meet up with him when we get there. Hopefully, he's made some headway with the dwarven rulers and we can finish up what he's begun."

"You know, Winter, Eamon plans to call for a landsmeet once the treaties have been served and our allies secured. He says we need to deal with Loghain before we take on the darkspawn. I agree with him. Loghain is a danger to Ferelden."

"I believe he is, too. If Eamon wants a landmeet, that's what we'll do. The sooner we depose Anora and strip Loghain if his authority, the better. Alistair may not have any experience in leadership, but he's a true Fereldan and a blood heir. With the discipline he learned as a templar, his compassion for others, and his devotion to duty, he's not apt to let power go to his head."

"You seem to admire him," Teagan observed. He was fishing. "You know him well, I take it?"

She answered, "It would be difficult to live around someone for so long without learning enough to either admire or despise them. Alistair's character is admirable, and he's a strong, fearless warrior. Duncan was wise to select him."

"I don't doubt it," he said. She hadn't revealed anything. "Alistair will need guidance when he takes the throne. I'm not a politician and have no desire to spend my days in the king's court. Eamon could be of great help, though, if Alistair selects him. But what are your plans after the war, if I may ask? Will you stay and serve in his court, or remain with the wardens, or try to resume a normal life?"

Winter replied, "I hadn't considered my future, truthfully. At this point, all that matters is gathering an army and ending the blight. Beyond that, I can't say what I'll do."

"Have you thought of returning to Starkhaven?"

"No. I won't go back to Starkhaven. Ferelden is my home."

Teagan noted how her voice tightened when she answered, as though talking about Starkhaven was difficult for her. He reminded himself not to bring it up in conversation again.

"Ferelden is lucky to have you," he said. "I, for one, wouldn't want you to leave here."

"Well then, I guess you're stuck with me," she said flippantly.

Before he could come up with a witty reply, a servant summoned them to dinner. He rose and extended a hand to Winter. She placed her small hand in his palm and he marveled at how those delicate-looking hands could wield swords with such expertise. She grabbed his hand with a firm grip, pulled herself up, and linked her arm through his.

"Would you escort a lady to dinner?" she smiled.

He was delighted with her charmingly brazen behavior. "Gladly. Proudly." He escorted her to the dining room. Alistair was already seated and waiting. He didn't raise an eyebrow when they walked in arm-in-arm.

_That's a good sign. No surprise, no jealousy. Maybe I was wrong to worry, _Teagan thought.

The cook had made a feast, and they dined in relative silence, if one didn't consider the occasional slurps, gulps, and belches coming from Alistair. Winter shot him a nasty look after he emitted an especially loud belch.

"What?" he asked, trying to look innocent. After that, he stifled his noises.

Winter was fatigued and ate little. Tiredness didn't slow Alistair down. He consumed heaps of food. Even Teagan had seconds, but nobody could keep pace with Alistair. Nor did they want to. The man must have had a blast furnace for a stomach. But the food was plentiful and good, and Teagan was pleased to see his guests making themselves at home.

Long before Alistair finished eating, Winter excused herself from the table, saying she was going to retire for the night. Teagan summoned a maid to show her to the suite. "The eastern suite on the upper floor," he reminded the girl, and she nodded her understanding that he meant the master suite. "Be sure that our guest has everything she needs." The maid curtsied smartly and led Winter up the stairs.

Teagan and Alistair had warm ale before retiring. The ale relaxed Alistair, and with his stomach full and a real bed waiting for him, he was ready to sleep. He bid his surrogate uncle good night and ambled off. Teagan, satisfied that his guests were well cared for, retired as well.

In her suite, Winter was thrilled to find a bath of polished stone and plenty of water—some of it still steaming. She poured it into the tub and shucked her armor and undergarments, then slipped into the water. The chilly waterfall at camp was a blessing and she was grateful for it. This hot bath, though, was luxurious. She lounged in the water until it began to grow too cool, then she washed and dried herself with a bath sheet.

A white cotton gown had been laid out on the bed for her. That was odd. Teagan was a bachelor and had no need of such things. She thought it might belong to one of the maids, but the fabric smelled new. She shrugged it off, too tired to care. It was soft and clean, and there was a great big bed waiting for her. The servants had made a blazing fire before she got to the room, and she added another couple of logs to keep the cavernous suite warm until she fell asleep.

She crawled into bed, pulled the blankets and quilts up around her neck, and settled in the soft goose feather pillows. Her bed back home wasn't this nice, and she thought hers was the best ever made. This one was fit for royalty. Before she drifted off, she thought on the day's events, on her gracious host, and on her still-confused feelings for Alistair.

_Scratch that thought. I don't want to keep myself awake battling with feelings again. They'll work themselves out._

She rolled over, throwing her slender arms over the pillows and burrowing into them. The house had a distinctly masculine scent. It was a pleasing aroma. She fell asleep comforted, feeling as if strong arms were around her, keeping her safe and warm.

Teagan lay awake in the guest suite. The bed was comfortable, the room more than adequate. No reason for insomnia other than his troubled thoughts. Tomorrow they would be leaving, and he might not see her again until they set off to battle the blight. He'd missed her since he last saw her at Redcliffe Castle. Seeing her today was a gift from the Maker, but his heart ached with love that he couldn't express to her. He had left the castle because of the memories she'd made for him there; how would he live in his own home after she'd gone? It would be empty and lonely without her.

He had fallen in love with her foolishly, but it happened so subtly that he was in too deep before he could stop the fall. Back then—weeks ago? months ago?—he was captivated by her beauty and her character; now he was bewitched by her delightful personality. The more he got to know her, the more deeply he loved her.

One thought disturbed him more than his aching heart. Orzammar was the underground city of the dwarves, but also the entrance to the Deep Roads, the darkspawn lair. It was said to be miles of tunnels and caverns, so deep that a river of lava ran through it. That was where she and Alistair were going. Into Orzammar. So close to the monsters' lair. So dangerous that he feared for their safety. He feared for her life. She was skilled, but darkspawn in great numbers had overwhelmed Cailan and his army. What if they had to go to the Deep Roads… these two people who were so dear to him? What if the darkspawn chose that time, while they were in Orzammar, to come out of hiding and invade the city? What if…

_Stop it! This is pointless worry. I can't "what if" myself to death. _

He tossed restlessly, thinking of Winter in his suite, sleeping in his bed. He envisioned her there, her dark hair fanned out on the pillow, her eyes closed, her beautiful face serene in sleep. He imagined himself beside her, reaching out to stroke her cheek, touch her hair, embracing and kissing her. He imagined her, as he'd done countless times, loving him…

_Stop tormenting yourself, you fool. _

He tried to occupy his mind by planning the following day's activities. Mundane things that had to be done like overseeing operations at the meadery, going over the books, checking up on the townsfolk, receiving nobles and hearing their concerns, checking to make sure Alistair hadn't crippled his best breeding stallion with his wild ride… His uneventful life had one thing in its favor: it bored him to sleep.

Alistair and Teagan were up and at the breakfast table early. They waited for Winter, but after a half hour without a sign of her, they became concerned. Teagan sent a maid to check on her and ask if she needed anything. The maid came back in a few minutes, saying that the lady guest had overslept, and she sent word that she would be downstairs directly.

Alistair chuckled. "That's a first for her. She usually sleeps in bursts of minutes, not hours. I think she's pushed herself to the brink of exhaustion."

"I suspect you're right," Teagan agreed. "I don't know how you adventurous types survive under such demanding, harsh conditions. No sleep, no shelter, foraging for food…"

"We sleep, we have tents, and some of our people are skilled hunters, so we always have food. It's not so bad once you realize you have no other choice." He said it lightheartedly, but it was a serious matter. They did what they had to do to survive, and they survived so they could fight.

Winter came into the room looking well-rested and radiant, apologizing for her lateness. "I didn't want to leave that bed," she commented. "I think it has some sort of magic that held me against my will."

"I think you needed a good night's rest after all these months of taking catnaps on the ground," Alistair said. "You deserved it. Nothing to apologize for." Teagan agreed with him.

She woke with a healthy appetite, and helped herself to a plateful of the delicacies Teagan had instructed the cook to prepare. "Fresh milk?" she observed with delight. "I haven't had milk in… I can't remember when." She poured a cup and downed it. "This is cow's milk, not goat? We've died and gone to the golden city, right? I could stay here forever."

Teagan jumped on that comment. "Please do. You're most welcome here."

"I wish," she said ruefully. "You know what?" she began, spearing a piece of sausage and popping it into her mouth. She used the fork as her pointer, and pointed it at Teagan. "I was thinking," she paused to chew, and went on in spurts of words, "… that you might like to come along." Stop, chew, swallow, spear another piece of sausage. "Have you ever been to Orzammar?"

"My dear girl, I rarely go further than the borders of Rainesfere except when I visit Eamon in Redcliffe. I've been to Denerim maybe ten times in my entire life. I don't think I've been to any of the other cities in Ferelden."

"Your life is too quiet," she observed, and Alistair nodded. "You should come with us, have some fun. We can check out the dwarven-made goods, supposedly some of the finest weapons and armor made in all Ferelden." Teagan listened with an amused ear while she prattled on, thinking he was actually cut out for the same kind of lifestyle the wardens led. "And then, if you're really feeling plucky, we could venture into the Deep Roads."

"You're not serious," Teagan said, his amusement quenched. "You don't truly plan to go to the Deep Roads, do you?"

"Don't listen to her, Uncle Teagan," Alistair said, "She's just trying to get to you. You have to watch her if she gets too comfortable around you. She'll try to lure you to dangerous places for her fiendish entertainment."

"Liar," Winter snarled playfully. "I've never purposely led anyone into danger, but it finds us anyway." She finished her breakfast in one bite, Alistar-style. "I have no plans and no desire to go to the Deep Roads, Teagan. I was joking. Don't let my quirky humor upset you."

He relaxed upon hearing they weren't going to the Deep Roads after all. "I'm not upset, dear girl. I'm concerned for you both because of the dangers you face. I do wish you would come by here on your way back to your camp after you finish your business in Orzammar."

She looked up at Alistair. He was all for it. "We could do that. It's on the way to Redcliffe, so if you really want us to…"

"I really want you to."

"Then it's settled," she said, pushing away from the table and rising to her feet. "Now we'd better be on our way or we'll never get there and back. Wouldn't want to miss out on the blight, would we, Alistair?"

"Absolutely not. It will be the highlight of my career as a Grey Warden. Or maybe the end of it."

"You two will be the death of me," Teagan groaned.

"Rubbish," Winter said. "Don't worry. We'll be careful and we'll be fine, and I promise this will be our first stop on the way back."

"Thank you," Teagan said. "It will ease my mind greatly when I see you both again."

They secured their armor and weapons, strapping them into place. Winter helped Alistair hook his shield on his back, calling him a "tin turtle" and touching off another round of banter. Armed, armored, and well fed, they were ready to leave. Alistair turned to Teagan and shook his hand.

"Thank you for everything," he said, in one of his rare serious moments. "I've had the most fun, the best conversations, the best meals, and the best night's sleep I've had since I became a Grey Warden. It felt like… like family, I suppose."

"It was a pleasure to have you here, Nephew," Teagan replied warmly. "Just like old times." He walked them to the door and accompanied them down the stairs. Alistair went on ahead but Winter stopped to say her goodbyes.

"It truly was the most pleasant time I've had in years," she said, meaning it sincerely. "I enjoyed your company as well as your hospitality. And I look forward to coming back."

"Not nearly as much as I look forward to having you back here," Teagan answered.

Winter took his hands in hers, sending his heart racing. She stunned him with the words that he'd spoken to her at Redcliffe: "If only things were different…"

"Meaning?" Teagan prompted.

"Meaning I wish I could stay longer. You're a dear friend. And Rainesfere is… perfect. I haven't seen its equal in all Ferelden." She took a long look around as if recording a mental image of the land, then added with regret, "But I can't stay. We've already lingered too long."

_A dear friend._ She saw him as nothing but a friend. He recalled Eamon's words about Isolde: "A pretty face, a much younger woman… I should have known better." He hid his disappointment and put on a smile for her.

As she turned to go, movement dropped to a surreal crawl. He watched their hands disengage with dreamlike slowness, the vision playing out before his eyes frame by leisurely frame, mocking the hollow pain in his chest. He glanced up to see if she was experiencing the same peculiarity, and his gaze met her brilliant green eyes. They appeared brighter and deeper than before. If it were possible, she'd become lovelier. Her lips were curved in a smile. An inviting smile. Inviting him to…

_Kiss her_

…come along on their trek, but he couldn't. He wasn't an adventurer. How could an ordinary man catch the attention, much less win the heart, of a woman like Winter? The most he could do was to…

_Kiss her_

…defend himself, his house, and try to protect his bannorn. He would participate in the war and probably die in it, but before he did, he wanted to…

_Kiss her_

…tell her how much he'd come to care for her. If the chance presented itself. He hoped he'd get that chance, because the words were swelling and squeezing his insides with their insistent need to escape.

Her smile faded and her dark brows drew together. She cocked her head quizzically. "Teagan?" Her voice was melodic. A siren's seductive song. "Are you alright?"

His fantasy bubble popped and he was flung back to the present. "Yes, I'm fine. I… had a moment. Can't quite explain it." He smiled and shrugged sheepishly. "Getting old, I suppose."

She slapped him playfully on his chest. "Stop it! You're not getting old." Her smile returned, and became coy. "You're using that as an excuse not to come to Orzammar, aren't you?"

_I would go to the void and back for you if you were mine._

"I wish I could go. I truly do. It sounds like a grand adventure, but my duties keep me tied down here more than I care to admit to myself."

"Oh you poor man," she cooed, without any sympathy whatsoever. "To be stuck in a paradise like Rainesfere must be torture."

Right now, as scenic and placid as Rainesfere was, it _was_ torture. If he were freer he could travel with her, fight beside her, sleep near her (no, that would be too tempting), live with her as her companions did. But who was he kidding? He was an administrator. Keeping order and solving problems was what he did best. He was needed in the bannorn, now, with the darkspawn threatening towns. His people looked to him for leadership. He couldn't abandon them.

"Alright, if that's your final decision," she said. She glanced about and saw Alistair at the foot of the hill, patiently waiting for his leader, then she turned those magnificent eyes on Teagan again. "I'd better get going before my companions wander off the edge of the continent. Maybe someday I can talk you into coming with us. It would be the most fun you've ever had, I promise."

To his amazement, she put her hands on his shoulders, leaned to him, and kissed his cheek. Unthinking, he kissed her cheek in return. "Please have a care, Winter," he said in her ear. "Don't come to harm." He pulled away before he lost control and embraced her. "What would I… what would Ferelden be without its Lady of Swords?" The facetious turn might cover his small slip.

"Hmm… More peaceful?" she proffered. "Farewell, my friend. I'll see you again when we've finished with Orzammar."

"I'll be waiting," he vowed. When she was far out of earshot, he said softly, "I love you, Winter."

He would wait for her. As long as she wasn't pledged to another, he would wait. And hope. He watched her go, and the longing inside him clamored for him to go after her.

* * *

Winter walked beside Alistair in silence for a while, thinking over the past day at Rainesfere. She found the place incredibly beautiful, more so than Starkhaven. If things were different, she could have made a home there. She wondered if she would ever have a real home again.

"You like him, don't you?" Alistair asked. "He's always been my favorite almost-uncle."

"He's a dear person. Who wouldn't like him?" Winter answered.

"Loghain doesn't like him, that's who," he responded.

Thinking ahead to Eamon's landmeet, she said, "Loghain's days as regent are numbered."


	9. A Small Problem

A "Small" Problem

Part 1 – Short People

* * *

My companions hadn't made it inside Orzammar's gates. Aiden tried to reason with the guard, telling him he was a Grey Warden and we had a treaty that compelled the dwarves to lend aid, but the guard wouldn't budge until he saw the document for himself. (It was in my pack.) So they had wasted two days waiting for Alistair and me to arrive. Their impatience made them irritable and they argued among themselves.

_What a great first impression they make_, I thought angrily.

As if that wasn't enough, three of Loghain's lackeys had arrived ahead of our party. The head lickspittle demanded to be let in to speak to their king. "King Loghain demands it," he crowed.

"It wouldn't matter to me if your King Loghain came here riding piggyback on a hurlock," the guard answered him, unmoved by the name-dropping. "_No one_ gets in until I receive word from Assembly Steward Bandelor."

"_King_ Loghain, is it?" I asked, stepping up beside the pompous messenger boy. "Last I heard, Ferelden had a queen and a murdered king. I don't recall there being a coronation lately."

"And just who are you?" he asked snootily. The Orzammar guard watched with disinterest.

I ignored him and spoke to the guard. "I'm a Grey Warden, and I have a treaty compelling Orzammar to provide soldiers in case of a blight." I handed him the document.

"A Grey Warden!" the lackey shouted with a sneer. "Your men murdered King Cailan and cost him the battle…"

"I think you know better than that," I rejoined. "It was your cowardly false king Loghain who caused all the trouble."

The messenger sputtered and fumed. "You will not speak of our king that way! I'll cut your tongue out and watch you choke on your blood before I slit your throat. Draw your sword, traitor."

_Mighty big talk for such a little man._

"Suits me. Let's see if your sword arm can back up your claims," I taunted the messenger, then I walked a short distance from the city's gates and waited for him. He lunged toward me with more rage than skill. His companions, a mage and a Denerim palace guard, engaged my men while I dueled the mouthpiece. He was all talk, as I suspected, and I made short work of him, burying one sword in his shoulder, making his drop his weapon, and the other in his chest. I expected a blast of hot air to escape him when he'd been pierced, but it was just a fount of blood where my blade severed his aorta.

The mage was powerful, equal to Morrigan in his spellcasting but better with battle strategy. He knocked her off her feet with a stone fist spell. Aiden got behind him and ran him through with his dagger, then beheaded him with his longsword. Zev and Alistair toyed with the palace guard, letting the poor sod think he was winning before cutting him down.

Opponents vanquished, we sheathed our weapons, brushed ourselves off, and approached the guard. "Now then, about that treaty," I began.

"You've done me a favor, Warden," the guard said. "I've spent a week thinking of ways to kill him slowly." The dwarf carried a battleaxe that would make any kill a quick one, but who was I to piss on his dreams? "Your papers are valid. I'll admit you and your fellows."

He opened the gates, and we entered a long chamber filled with crudely hewn statues of dwarven "paragons"-dwarves who had made notable contributions to the culture and advanced their technology. I assumed those paragons were long dead until I heard a mother and daughter arguing about one called Branka. From their conversation, I surmised that this particular paragon was a contemporary hero.

Another set of iron doors opened into Orzammar's business and residential quarters. It was a city in turmoil, with factions openly fighting in the streets, killing each other simply for being on the opposing side of a political rivalry. We avoided the fights and searched for the Council of the Assembly, and the assembly steward.

Before finding the council, I took time to browse the shops for unique and useful items. I found a merchant near the Deep Roads area that carried a number of things I wanted to buy, funds permitting. One was a plain-looking ring with a ridiculously high price tag.

"What's so special about that ring?" I asked the merchant. "It's awfully plain for that price."

He explained, "I call that ring 'Lifegiver'. It's one of a kind, specially made and enchanted…"

"Enchanted?" I interrupted. "You dwarves aren't able to do magic or enchanting. How was the ring enchanted? Are you trying to cheat me?"

"N-n-n-n-n-no!" he stammered. "My goods are the best, and they're guaranteed."

"Oh, I get it. If the ring doesn't work and I die in battle, I can return it for a full refund?"

"Yes indeed!" he exclaimed cheerfully, missing the glaringly obvious fact that a corpse couldn't ask for their money back. Then, through his lyrium fog, understanding seeped in. "I mean no, the ring won't fail you. It was enchanted by an elven mage from the Circle thing. The circular tower. The tower… thing. You know, the jail where they keep all the mages on the surface."

"Well, he's got part of it right," Morrigan observed. "Tis most certainly a prison for mages."

"It's for their protection," Alistair said. "And it's secure with good reason. Or at least, it _was_ secure before some of them went rogue. That's the way with apostates, isn't it?"

I held up a hand to halt the bickering before it went too far and sidetracked us from our purpose for being in Orzammar. "Let it go, both of you. We can debate the pros and cons of mages and templars another day. For now, let's focus on our mission, if you please."

"Agreed," Morrigan said. Alistair muttered his assent, and the matter was shelved until later.

The ring cost a lot of coin—most of what I had—but if it provided as much protection as the merchant insisted it did, it was a good investment. I took a chance and bought it.

As we walked to the Diamond Quarter's entrance, Zevran scolded me for wasting our coin on an ugly ring that probably did nothing. I came back with, "First of all, it's not _our_ coin. It's _my_ coin. You can all get a share, if you're not above looting and selling goods yourselves. If you rely on me to do all the work, you can bet I'll be keeping the coin. Secondly, I don't have to ask anyone's permission when I want to make a purchase, give to those in need, or throw my entire coin purse in the lava. Thirdly, I don't see you doing without anything you need in the way of weapons and armor, not to mention gifts when I can find them."

Zev laughed and said, "Alright, alright, I give in. I was wrong to question your judgment."

Alistair, our resident troublemaker, added, "Really, Zevran. You claim to know women so well, and you don't know not to bother a woman when she's shopping? Even I knew that."

Aiden got in on it. "I'm impressed, Alistair. For one so reluctant to surrendered his virginity, you've caught on quickly." To Zev, he said, "He's right, you know. About women and shopping."

Morrigan gave the three of them a long, frosty glare. "I can't believe what I'm hearing. Do you ignorant brutes think all women are selfish, brainless bits of fluff?"

"No, of course not," Aiden quickly answered. "It was a joke."

"A poor one. If you want to engage in humor, try to develop a sense of it," she said haughtily.

"Oh look, the Council of the Assembly, dead ahead," I announced, loudly and sarcastically, to stop their bickering. Again. "It seems you children get cranky when you miss your nap time. Let's go find the steward and finish our business."

If only it were that easy. The steward told me of Orzammar's troubles and why none but us were allowed within its gates. They had no king, and there was a stalemate between two candidates. Until it could be settled, Orzammar wasn't in a position to give aid, treaty or no treaty.

_Just like with the Dalish. Another hurdle to jump, another snag. No one seems to care that the entire nation is in peril. It's just _their_ problems that matter._

I learned what I could from him about the two candidates. One was the late king's youngest son, the other was the king's advisor and most trusted friend. We'd walked right into a hornet's nest. I would have to choose a side, and try to help get that person elected king before we could get their promise of troops.

Another round of arguments started among my party, and instead of stopping them, I listened to their opinions. I didn't know this Prince Behlen or his opponent Lord Harrowmont. A little input from my group was welcome, but I was too annoyed with them from earlier to ask their advice. So I kept quiet and let them quibble for a while until I reached a decision.

"Let's go talk to Harrowmont's second and see what he has to say," I said at length. "This Behlen sounds too shady for my liking."

"That is exactly why he should rule," Zev said. "Besides, he is of royal blood."

Alistair had his say, too. "Dwarves vote on everything. Even their king is elected. It would seem the assembly should decide."

"Let's. Go. Now." I emphasized each word to get my seriousness across to them. My ducklings lined up and followed obediently. We found Dulin right outside the chamber's doors. He greeted me politely, but refused to let me meet with Harrowmont since there had been an attack on his life earlier that day. To prove my loyalty, he said, I could enter the Proving, a gladiatorial game that the dwarves used to discern whom the ancestors favored.

_Okaaayyyy… There's a sensible way of making decisions if ever I heard one._

"Fine, I'll sign up for the Proving," I said. "Anything else?"

"Win it, that's all," Dulin answered.

_Little smart ass. _

"I don't enter a competition with the intention of losing."

We went to the Proving arena and I signed up. I was put into battle immediately. Dwarves were reputed to be tough, courageous warriors. They talked tough, but those stubby little arms and legs put them at a disadvantage. My longer limbs and longswords made "short" work of it, if you'll excuse the awful pun. Eight rounds of easy wins later, I was hustled over to Harrowmont's estate.

He seemed to be a sincere man, loyal to the late king and true to his memory. But as far as being able to guarantee troops, he couldn't do anything. He had to be king to give that order, and the assembly that elected kings had to be convinced. As yet, they weren't.

"What else?" I asked, growing impatient with the delays. The horde wasn't going to wait for these fellows to settle their political woes.

"Have you heard of Jarvia?" he asked. She ran the Carta, which was Orzammar's organized crime ring.

Before the day was out, Jarvia wished she hadn't heard of me. An hour after finding a way into her hideout, she and her whole gang were dead. We went back to Harrowmont, my purse fat with the coin I'd received from selling the loot from their corpses.

"I hate to go back on my word…" Harrowmont began.

"But you will," I finished, thoroughly vexed by these games. "What will it take to get you on the throne and to get my troops? The bottom line, if you please. I can't waste any more time doing the Orzammar guards' dirty work."

"Have you heard of Branka?"

_Andraste's hairy armpits…_

"No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me who she is and why I need to find her or kill her for you."

The Deep Roads. I should have seen this one coming. After the jokes we'd made at Teagan's house about going to the Deep Roads, it looked like that was where we were headed. A dwarf named Oghren stopped us before we got to the entrance to the Deep Roads and asked to come along. He was Branka's husband, he said, and if anyone knew how to find her, he did.

"Is that so?" I asked, skeptical that the uncouth, smelly little man could help us. "If that's the case, and she's been gone for two years, why haven't you found her by now and saved me the trouble?"

He tagged along anyway, walking in the lead beside me like it was our joint expedition. As long as he could lead us to Branka and help us unravel the political knot, he could walk wherever he pleased.

Before we found Branka, we found darkspawn. A lot of them. I'd heard from Alistair how the Deep Roads always had darkspawn, even in times of blight, but there were more than I expected. Genlocks, hurlocks, battlemages and ogres, a bridge where shrieks ambushed us from both sides, a genlock forgemaster with deadly magical talents… and my personal favorite, an ancient darkspawn that led me to a longsword that was to become my favorite. It belonged to a "topsider"—in this case, an elven rogue—who'd fought valiantly with the dwarves against the darkspawn and perished in the Deep Roads long ago. His sword was sharper and more powerful than Duncan's sword. I tucked the pieces in my pack to have them reforged by a weaponsmith. Levi Dryden's brother was a smith, I recalled, and plied his trade at the Peak.

We descended miles beneath the surface, following tunnels and fighting huge spiders along with the darkspawn, and a few stone golems that were much larger than Shale. We knew we were getting close to Branka when we found the last living member of her house. It was her captain, and also her lesbian lover Hespith. She'd gone mad with whatever horrors she'd seen and endured. Her face was blackened with either terrible bruises or darkspawn corruption. She spoke in disjointed phrases, going from despair to terror and back again. She kept repeating one word that, to me, sounded like a lunatic's piffle: "broodmother."

I asked Oghren, "What's broodmother? Is that a dwarven thing?"

"Nope," was his eloquent response.

"Let's keep going," I sighed. We all stank from darkspawn blood, but for Oghren the stench of it was an improvement over his normal body odor. The little fellow could swing a battle axe with the best of them, but one wanted to be upwind of him when he did.

We came upon an entrance to a cave, sealed by heavy iron doors, kept locked and guarded by two ogres. After putting them down, we obtained the key, fought off some irate ghosts, and opened the doors that barred our way into the cave. When the doors swung open, the smell that rolled out at us was far worse than Oghren's. I put a hand to my nose and stopped, leaning against the cave wall to wait for the waves of nausea to pass. I had never smelled anything so disgusting, and I'd come upon decomposing bodies and stepped in things so foul I'd rather not identify them. But this… Nothing compared to this. I wasn't the only one affected. Morrigan gagged, Alistair's eyes were watering, and Aiden held his sleeve over his mouth and nose as a filter. Zev backed out of the cave, standing outside the entrance, gulping in stale but less acrid air.

Once I regained control and the urge to vomit passed, I waited for my companions to recover enough for us to proceed. "Take your time," I told them, "but hurry up about it. We have to go forward. Whatever we're after, it must be through here."

Morrigan cast a protective ward around each of us to help hold back the worst of the odors. "It will not last long," she cautioned. "We must move quickly, and hope we finish our task here before the ward dissipates."

We'd come upon many blobs of what looked like raw, skinned flesh. In places, it appeared to have grown out of the very walls. The closer we got to this area, the more numerous they became. And needless to say, they stank. I led the group around a bend where two more fleshy blobs sat, sending up their offensive odor. They were fetid, but not even close to what we found around the last bend, inside the belly of the cave.

The source of the horrific stink was a very large, immensely fat, multi-layered creature with the face of a human or dwarf. The cavern floor was covered with a fleshy material that pulsed with life, coated with a slick, waxy film that made it difficult to keep our footing. The cave reeked of sour sweat and vomit and urine and feces, and a host of other sickening, unidentifiable odors. The thing—and I assumed this was the "broodmother"—sat in the back of the cave. It roared in indignation at our approach.

Piecing together the information Hespith had given us, the creature had once been a dwarven woman. Its layers were breasts. It had eight of them in four layers, the bottom band of flesh completely covering the lower part of its body, assuming it still had hips and legs. Its bulk made it immobile, but it was not without defenses. Long, stout, tentacles shot up from the floor, grasping at us.

Zevran stood transfixed for a few seconds. "Maker breath," he exclaimed. "So many breasts, and all of them so ugly!" With his accent, it came out as "aaagleeee". At another time, it would have been funny.

"Arrows, Aiden!" I shouted. "Ignore the tentacles and aim for its heart and head." He and Morrigan stood back, trying to stay out of reach of the tentacles, and fired arrows and fireballs at the thing. The rest of us were forced to move in close to the main body. A cheesy substance oozed from between the folds of the beast, allowing it to shift its body from side to side. Blisters formed where fireballs had hit it, but the wounds were superficial.

Its short arms flailed uselessly, but those tentacles were dangerous. One of them curled around Alistair, lifted him off the floor, and commenced to bash him against the stone cavern walls. If he weren't freed from it quickly he would die. I slashed at the base of the tentacle with my swords, both of which were enchanted with flame runes. The additional damage hurt the creature enough to make it release Alistair, who rolled out of the way as fast as his pain would permit. Oghren continued to hack at the base of the tentacles, felling them like trees.

Shrieks and genlocks swarmed in to protect this monster. Morrigan concentrated her attacks on them while Aiden continued to make the broodmother look like a porcupine. There were so many arrows in the thing by now that it should have been dead, but I saw that there was no blood around the wounds. On the severed tentacles, yes. But the arrows, embedded in bloodless flesh, did nothing.

"Aiden!" I yelled, intending to tell him to aim for the neck and head only. When I looked around, he was fighting off two shrieks and losing the battle. I ran to help him. Morrigan saw them as soon as I did, and she sent a steady stream of fire against one while I disemboweled the other.

"Thanks… girls…" he gasped. Blood surged from a deep puncture wound in his side.

I called to Morrigan, "If you know any healing spells, you're needed here." She saw Aiden slump to the floor, and for the first time since I'd met her, I saw genuine worry in her face. She rushed to his side to try to help him and I returned to the fight.

"Alright Lumpy, let's finish this dance," I snarled. I despised this beast and the injuries it caused my fellows, and its stench, and the fact that this hideously transformed woman was birthing darkspawn. It was weakening. With superhuman effort, I ran up the slippery layers of blubber and climbed onto its back. It tried to grasp me with its tentacles but they couldn't reach me. I intended to cut its throat but I was losing my balance as it frantically bucked, trying to crush me between its back and the wall. "Sod it," I said, and plunged both blades into its spine near the base of its skull. _Now_ there was blood. A gushing fountain of red-black, malodorous blood, covering my armor, my arms, splashing into my hair and on my face. I grabbed my blades and yanked them out, rolled down the dead beast's side, ducked into a crevice, and heaved until I had nothing left.

While we tried to catch our breath, Hespith spoke to us from a ledge above the dead monster. "That was Laryn. That's what I didn't want to become. But I'm dying, dream-friend…"

"Shut up," I growled.

"I'm dying of something worse than death…" she went on.

I picked up Aiden's bow and took an arrow from his quiver.

"Betrayal…" she finished.

"Here's your betrayal, bitch," I said, and sent an arrow through her throat. _That_ shut her up.

"Nice shot," Aiden smiled weakly.

"I was aiming for her head," I replied with a sheepish grin.

"That was rather cruel, don't you think?" Alistair scolded me.

"Was it?" I challenged. "She was to be the next broodmother. I think I was merciful."

"Of course, you're right," he said. "My apologies."

"Can you walk?" I asked Aiden. Morrigan had made a potion from her bag of herbs and administered it to him. He was pale and shaky, but he got to his feet with assistance.

He said he could probably walk with our support. Morrigan pulled one of his arms over her shoulders. I ducked under his other arm and we escorted him from that stinking crypt, through a narrow passage that was the only way out of the aptly-named Dead Trenches, into fresher air. Out of the cave, I pulled off my undertunic and tore it into strips. We bandaged Aiden's wound, then left Morrigan to sit with him while the rest of us continued the search for Branka.

* * *

Part 2 – "I Am Ironman"

"You're _the_ Caridin, as in Caridin's Cross?" I asked the 10-foot tall iron golem. I'd found his journal in Ortan Thaig but hadn't had a free minute to look through it. The book was ancient.

"I bound myself into this body," he lamented. "The Anvil of the Void is my creation. I used it to make stone golems, and when my mortal body was nearing death, I created this one for my soul. I've lived every day since then regretting what I'd done."

A sad tale, to be sure. The fellow—the _golem_, rather—was candid about his mistakes and regret, but remorse didn't undo anything. The souls he'd used to power his golem army were trapped in them forever.

"This is a much better endorsement than what we'd get from Branka," I said to Alistair. "He's a thousand years old or more, and still living in the body built on his anvil." I made a deal with Caridin. "I need your endorsement for Orzammar's new king. Without it, we won't have your people's help against the darkspawn."

Caridin was well acquainted with the darkspawn threat. It was the main reason he'd created the anvil and the golem army centuries earlier. His golems were the only beings immune to the tainted blood's poison. He vowed to give his endorsement if I would agree to destroy the anvil.

"Consider it done," I said. "But first, could you make a crown so that the assembly will know I wasn't just spinning a yarn for them?"

"I will do this," he said, and went to his anvil one last time.

While Caridin worked, Branka came bursting through the door. "NO! You can't destroy the anvil! I need it to make an army of golems. With them, you can fight your blight and win, and I'll be the most famous paragon in the history of my people."

"She was always like that," Oghren confided to me. "It was 'me, me, me.' Wasn't ever about us."

"Bah!" she scoffed. "You were a nobody, and you'll always be a nobody. I am your Paragon." You could actually _hear_ the way she capitalized "Paragon" in her hubristic tone.

"After you caused the death of your entire house? All two hundred of them?" Oghren said. "No, lady, you're no paragon. You're a gifted smith, but you're a murderer."

"I left you out of it, didn't I? You were safe at home while I took the risks."

"Yeah, sure, thanks for caring. You left me home so you could take your girlfriend Hespith with you."

I broke in, "Kids, we really don't have time for your marital spat right now."

Branka took offense, and I frankly couldn't give a nug's ass what she thought of me or my demeaning remarks. That short, cocky, mouthy crackpot wasn't going to get in my way. Not when I was this close to settling Orzammar's political stalemate and getting the army I needed.

"You ignorant human fool," she shot back. "What would your kind know of paragons and fame and power?"

As she continued to rant, I drew my blades. She, in response, pulled a golem control rod from its sheath on her belt. The stone golems that had stood inert in the room came to life, and Caridin froze in mid-strike at the anvil.

"Oh no you don't, you sodding rug-muncher," Oghren warned. He pulled his battleaxe and swung at her, severing the arm that held the control rod. The stone golems froze again, and Caridin was free.

"Stop her!" Caridin pleaded.

"Stand aside, Warden," Oghren said. "I got this one." He and his one-armed wife fought a short battle. She was bleeding profusely, but was too insane to lie down and die with what little dignity she might have had left. She swung her dagger at Oghren, staggering and growing weaker as her blood emptied from her body.

"She's suffering," Alistair said. "End it, Oghren."

"With pleasure," the dwarf answered, raising his axe overhead and bringing it down with all of his considerable strength, cleaving Branka's skull, neck, and midway through her chest.

"Overkill much, Oggie?" I observed.

"I call that move the 'dwarven divorce.' Believe me, you don't know how long I've wanted to do that. She always was a nerve-grating bitch."

Caridin finished the crown—a piece of work unequaled in its style and craftsmanship. He handed it to me. "Give it to whomever you choose. I feel you will know who can best lead Orzammar. Now will you keep your end of our bargain?"

"I will, as I promised," I answered. The anvil itself was a thing of beauty, but its bloody history could not be repeated. The only thing that could destroy it was a hammer of Caridin's make. I swung it with every ounce of strength I had and struck the anvil in its center. It cracked, began to crumble, then blew apart with enough force to knock me back and on my butt. "You could have warned me," I grumbled.

Caridin thanked me, wished me well, then took a swan dive off a ledge and into the lava river below. It saddened me to see him die. Whatever wrong he'd done in the past, I would always remember him as an honorable man.

Dwarf.

Golem.

Whatever.

"Let's get back to the assembly," I said.

"We need to see how Aiden's getting along," Alistair added. The worry in his voice was impossible to miss. "He didn't look too good when we left him in the Dead Trenches, and Morrigan's healing skill is as poor as mine."

When we approached Aiden, we knew his injury was worse than we'd thought. His skin was ashen, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his lips were turning blue. He was dying. Morrigan tended to him lovingly, with trembling hands and tear-filled eyes—something I never expected to witness in her. She truly cared for him.

I crouched beside him. "Aiden," I said softly. He opened his eyes, blinking slowly to focus. They were glazed. He rolled his head against the wall to turn his face toward me.

"Boss," he whispered weakly. A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

"You can't die," I said, choked up and fighting a losing battle against a typhoon of tears. "We need you."

"Not… what I… planned." It was his way of apologizing. And saying goodbye. His strength failed and his head lolled to his chest.

"Aiden, no!" I cried.

Morrigan said, "He's not dead yet. He faints and awakens. Aiden is a fighter, but I fear he hasn't much longer." Her voice sounded as mournful as I felt.

"Is there nothing you can do for him?" I was practically pleading with her.

"If there was, I would have done it." She brushed a stray lock of hair from his brow. "I cannot help him."

I was desperate. "Give me some elfroot. Deep mushrooms. Something. Anything."

"I've given him potions for injury and illness. He's bleeding inside, Winter. That is what is…" she choked on her words, recovered, and finished, "…what is killing him."

Oghren's gravelly voice broke our sorrowful silence. "You should put the poor sod out of his misery. Where he's at, he ain't comin back." Alistair jabbed him sharply with an elbow, and their height difference caused the blow to smack the dwarf in the mouth. Oghren turned on him. "Better watch those arms, pretty boy, or you'll be wearing that elbow in your arse."

"Shut up, you two," I hissed. Couldn't they behave like adults just this once, and let a good man die in peace?

"I can release him from his pain quickly," Zev offered. "There's no need for him to suffer so."

"Touch him and I'll incinerate you on the spot," Morrigan warned. Zev backed up.

"Give me a potion," I repeated to her. "Give me something. I have to at least _try_ to help him. To ease his pain, if nothing else."

"I have no more potions," she answered. "I have tried everything I had, but I cannot heal an open wound."

What was I thinking? I always carried a few potions in my pack. I shucked it from my shoulders and dug through its contents. There, under the loot and goods, at the bottom, was a small pouch.

_Andraste's ashes! I've kept them so secret even I've forgotten about them._

I pulled an injury potion from the pack, surreptitiously added a pinch of the ashes to it, and swirled it around to mix it. "Try to rouse him," I said to Morrigan.

"Tis of no use," she answered. "You are wasting a potion."

"Please. We have to try," I urged. She stroked his face and muttered a few words, an incantation, under her breath. Aiden stirred and raised his head, but his eyes were still closed.

"Aiden, listen to me," I said to him, cupping a hand under his chin. "I need you to drink this potion."

"Can't…"

"You must."

His throat worked to form another word. "Dying…"

"Drink." I pressed the tiny flask to his mouth. "Please." I tipped the flask and let a drop or two flow out onto his lip. He parted his lips and I poured a little more in his mouth.

"Must you drown him?" Morrigan demanded. I didn't answer her. She was afraid of losing him, same as I was.

"Tastes…" Aiden wheezed, "…like… crap."

"No worse than most of our meals at camp," I said, drawing a hint of a smile from him. "Drink." The flask tipped and he took the potion, in small sips, until he'd drained its contents.

"Before… I go…" he whispered. Was it my imagination, or did his voice sound stronger? Did I hear only what I so badly wanted to hear?

I leaned closer to him so he wouldn't have to use his remaining strength to talk.

My ear was right by his mouth. I felt his breath when he whispered, "You can be.. a real bitch… sometimes."

I was laughing and crying at once. He _was_ stronger; it wasn't my imagination. In minutes he was sitting up, his eyes cleared, his color normal, his breathing strong and even. The ashes worked.

"Welcome back," I said.

"You're going to get me back for that 'bitch' thing, aren't you?" The old Aiden was alive and well.

"When you least expect it, yes."

"What 'bitch thing'?" Alistair asked.

Morrigan and I helped him to his feet. He put an arm around her and kissed her cheek, something she wouldn't have tolerated before his near-death episode. He looked at me. "Thanks, Winter. For the record, I wouldn't have said that if… you know…"

"If you weren't sure you were dying and could get away with it?" I suggested.

"Something like that, yeah," he grinned. He looked down at his torso. "Damn shriek ruined my best leather armor."

"What did you give him?" Alistair asked. "And what's this 'bitch thing'?"

"Just a potion," I responded coyly. "And the 'bitch thing' is our little secret." I winked at Aiden and he winked back.

Alistair glared at us. He was feeling left out and a tad jealous. "Let's get out of this stinking tunnel," he said, walking ahead of the group.

The Council of the Assembly was in session when we arrived, and the deshyrs were at each other's throats as usual. Behlen was throwing around his same old accusations: that Lord Harrowmont forged the letter from this father, or that Harrowmont coerced the late king's endorsement, etc. Harrowmont had answered each of the prince's charges before, more than once. He refused to acknowledge them again.

_Dwarven politics. Gotta love it._

The Assembly Steward noticed our arrival. He beckoned to us to come forward. Oghren and I stepped onto the dais in the middle of the council chamber floor. The room went quiet except for the Assembly Steward's queries.

"Have you something to add, Warden? You went in search of the Paragon Branka. Did you find her, and if so, whom does she support?"

"Branka is dead," I answered. "But we found Caridin."

"Impossible!" Behlen scoffed. "Caridin died centuries ago."

"He lived in the body of a golem that he built," Oghreh put in. "And he made this crown for the new king."

"King Harrowmont," I finished.

You'd think that would put the matter to rest, wouldn't you? Not so fast. Prince Behlen wasn't going to give up his bid for the throne no matter who said what about whom. He called his followers to arms, and the place erupted in a mad free-for-all. Nobles, armed with maces and daggers, attacked the opposing side's followers.

"Let's sit this one out and let them handle it," I said. I'd had enough fighting to last me a lifetime, and there was still the blight ahead of us.

Harrowmont's new royal guards put the riot down, and when it was over, Prince Behlen lay dead, along with his followers. It was a messy start to Harrowmont's reign, through no fault of his own.

"Congratulations, King Harrowmont," I said. "Now that this is settled, will you honor the treaty as we agreed?"

"I will, without fail," he consented. "When you call, Orzammar will be there."

"Very well," I sighed, bone-weary and ready for a bath, a meal, and a night or two of sound sleep. No more talk was necessary. Our job was done, the treaties had all been served and the troops we needed were pledged to us when the time came to fight. And we'd picked up another party member: the coarse, crude, and occasionally entertaining Oghren.

When we neared Rainesfere, I sent Aiden, Morrigan, Zevran, and Oghren back to camp. "Rest up. When Alistair and I return, be ready to move out. Things are about to get real."

"This wasn't real enough for ya, Warden?" Oghren asked with a bushy eyebrow arched. "How much more real do ya want it?"

"Come on, dwarf," Aiden prodden him. "I'll explain it on the way."

Alistair and I waded into Lake Calenhad, fully clothed, and washed off without soap. We removed the blood, but some of the stench of the Deep Roads remained in our clothing. It would have to do.

We hoisted our weapons and packs, and turned toward Teagan's estate. I had a promise to keep.


	10. FaceOff

"Face/Off"

Part 1 – Against All Odds

* * *

We visited Teagan on the way back to camp. He treated us with the same gracious hospitality as before, giving us lavish meals and persuading us to stay the night before we continued on to camp, then to Redcliffe Castle to confer with Arl Eamon.

Before we left, Teagan informed us of his plans to make himself ready, prepare the people in his bannorn to combat darkspawn stragglers should any appear there (I had the distinct impression that darkspawn had already begun to appear, but he was reluctant to tell us), then to meet us at Redciffe Castle in a few days.

Back at camp, our companions were rested, healed, and ready for the battle to begin. Aiden looked as if he hadn't suffered a scratch. Morrigan stayed closer to him than before, not caring who knew of their feelings for each other. She was much friendlier to me, too.

It seemed everyone wanted to talk to me about something, but there simply wasn't time for anything but the most urgent business. The longer we lingered in camp, the better chance the darkspawn would attack en masse and catch us unawares. I called the group together and told them these things, and instructed them to prepare their weapons and armor, and be ready to move out in thirty-six hours. If anyone had important business to discuss, and I stressed _important_, bordering on life-and-death, they could find me in my tent or somewhere around camp. Otherwise, they were to make their preparations and then help anyone who might need assistance. After that, they were to get as much rest as they could, because the time was upon us that rest would be hard to come by.

That night Alistair came to my tent to talk. What he said took me by surprise. "You know how I feel about you, Winter. I… Well, here's the thing…" he stammered nervously.

"Yes? What is it, Alistair? Are you feeling well?"

"I'm fine. Yes, everything is… Look, Winter, I want to spend the night with you. Here. Tonight. Because I don't know if we'll have the chance again."

"Oh." I wasn't expecting this. Not now, of all times. "I am… flattered. But here? Now?"

"I know the timing isn't perfect, but when will it be perfect? I'd imagined something much better for you than a dusty camp and a bedroll on the ground." He moved closer and cupped my cheek. "I love you. I want to be with you. Is that so terrible?"

"No, Alistair, it's not," I answered. "I do… care… for you…" The words were hard to say. I didn't want to hurt him, but I didn't know if there was a way to say it and _not_ hurt him. "I'm just… not ready for this. Not yet. I made a mistake before…"

"I am not that man," he broke in.

"I know. I know you aren't. But please, if you want to be with me, you must give me more time."

"What if there _is_ no more time? What if this is our last chance?"

"Then I'll die without feeling we've taken a good thing and cheapened it." I put my hand over his. "I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't give myself to anyone again until I was married. I want it to be real, and right, or I don't want it at all. Can you understand why I feel this way?"

He looked disappointed, but not hurt. "Yes, I understand. And in a way, I agree. That's how it should be and it's no less than you deserve." He kissed me lightly. "I will wait for you, dearest. We'll talk again when this is all over."

Without waiting for a reply, he slipped out of my tent. As soon as he was gone I started doubting myself. Did I do the right thing? Was I too harsh; did I sound too demanding? Or worse, did he think I was trying to pressure him to marry me by withholding myself?

"No," I answered myself aloud. "I can't think on this right now."

The unmistakable sound of shrieks split the quietness outside. I grabbed a sword and opened my tent flap to see a shriek right there with its back to me. It was flailing at someone—I couldn't see who, and it didn't matter. They were _my_ people. I drove my sword into the beast at an upward angle, to destroy its internal organs and to avoid the blade going too far forward and injuring one of my party members who might be standing near it. It fell, and I stepped over it to combat the other monsters that had attacked our camp. There were nine of them in all.

Sten finally got his chance to fight some darkspawn after his long, impatient wait. His greatsword whistled through the air when he swung it, then it split a shriek in half with a nasty-sounding splatter. He moved on to another. When they were all on the ground, he went to each one and drove his blade through their heads to make sure they wouldn't be getting up again. He looked disappointed that there were only nine of them.

"That was a warning," I said to him. "The archdemon is telling us he knows where we are. Now we're going to find out where he is."

"And kill him," Sten finshed.

"Yes. We'll kill him."

"It's about time."

* * *

We hiked to Redcliffe to meet with Arl Eamon. Unlike our last visit, which was a cordial one, this was formal business. Eamon was pleased that we'd been successful in gathering all our allies. He declared that everything was in place for the next step: a landsmeet. The nobles of Ferelden had been summoned and were waiting for him in Denerim. Maker willing, they would remove Loghain from power and try him for treason, depose Anora, and put Alistair on the throne.

"Just like that?" Alistair said.

"No, it won't be as easy as that," Eamon scowled at him. "Loghain won't simply admit his guilt, and Anora won't just step aside. It's up to the landsmeet to declare them unfit to rule, and to put you on the throne where you belong. With your Theirin bloodline, it will be hard for them to ignore your claim to the throne as the strongest."

Teagan stood beside Eamon, lending his quiet support to his brother. Eamon had years of political experience, having advised Maric and Cailan. Alistair was going to need him in his court.

Aware of our concerns, Eamon said, "Don't worry, son. I'll be there in whatever capacity you require, for as long as you have need of me. You aren't being thrown to the wolves here."

"Thank you, my lord," Alistair said. "I'm relieved to hear it. I will rely on your wisdom."

He seemed to have matured overnight. His manner was different. He was more solemn, didn't make light of everything, and he took the kingship very, very seriously. I liked him this way.

"Warden," Eamon addressed me, "since you have your armies, I propose we move quickly and not give Loghain a chance to gather his supporters around him. We should go to Denerim and proceed with the landsmeet as soon as possible."

"I agree, your lordship. My party and I are ready to move out on your orders."

"Very well. We leave immediately." He turned to Teagan. "Will you stay in Redcliffe and see to the arling in my absence? If the darkspawn attack before our business is concluded in Denerim, I'll need you here to command my army."

"You can count on me," Teagan answered.

I signaled to my companions to meet me in the castle courtyard. Eamon said to me, "Ferelden owes you a debt, Warden. But we are still a nation in need. Your work is not yet done, I fear."

"I'm not going anywhere, m'lord," I said, "except where I'm needed. For now, to Denerim."

"I am grateful," he said. "Meet me at my estate inside the city. Any guard can direct you."

"Maker be with you, Winter," Teagan added.

"Indeed," Eamon said. "Maker be with us all."

In the coming days we would need the Maker's help.

I borrowed a horse from Eamon's stable. If I'd walked, having to go first to Soldier's Peak and then to Denerim, it would have delayed my arrival by two days. Unwilling to drag any of my fellows along, I went alone. Alistair traveled with Eamon, and Aiden led the rest of the group to Denerim.

At the Peak, Mikhael Dryden took the pieces of the sword I'd found in the Deep Roads and he spent the better part of a day reforging it into the finest blade I'd ever seen. He balanced it perfectly for me, and remade the grip so that it fit my hand more comfortably. It was the work of a master smith, and well worth the twenty-five sovereigns I paid him to reforge it.

Levi tended to my horse while I waited for the sword. He chatted about the Peak, and about how business had picked up once travelers and soldiers found out that the old fort was reopened and merchants were there to serve them. There was a shortage of merchants in Ferelden, I'd noticed. Levi Dryden was a born trader. The man could sell salt to a snail.

I rode into Denerim a half-day behind schedule. Not bad, and the horse wasn't foaming at the mouth from being run too hard. I put the animal up in a stable outside the city walls and went in to look for Eamon's estate.

I ran across Zev, who was trying to convince a noblewoman in the market that he was an Antivan prince here on business with the queen. She didn't fall for it. "I'm Antivan, elf," she informed him. "Antiva has no elven royalty. Away with you before I call the guard."

I was leaning against a post, watching him with an amused eye. He flashed me his most charming grin, shrugged, and approached to greet me. He invited me for a drink before going to Eamon's estate. "Getting into the manor is easy," he said, "but getting out is like escaping from jail. Not so simple. They ask where you go, why you go, when you will be back."

"Is that so? Then yes, let's have that drink before we go in." We headed for the Gnawed Noble.

* * *

Part 2 – The Unforgiven

He'd been waiting in the Denerim inn for three days. Listening in on the nobles' conversations and the buzzing gossip around the city had given him a good idea of what was going on and when she would arrive. It could be as soon as today, surely no later than tomorrow. He'd learned on his first day in the city that she and her traveling companions were coming from a town called Redcliffe, a four-day walk from Denerim.

Everywhere one turned there was talk of a landsmeet, and there was a good deal of name-dropping and titles being tossed around. Queen, regent, arl. Two names were most often heard: Loghain and Eamon. He wondered what connection Winter had with this country's leaders, and why she had involved herself in Ferelden's political matters. Wasn't she a Grey Warden?

That in itself had come as a shock when he'd heard it. He couldn't envision her as a soldier of any type, least of all a Grey Warden. She'd always had an affinity for swords and fighting, but she was a ranking noblewoman, for Andraste's sake. Upon the death of her parents, she moved up in line for the throne. Close enough to it that if _he_ were to die leaving no heir, Winter could be the next ruler of Starkhaven.

The locals eyed him curiously but no one approached him. To them, he was just a visiting noble or a soldier come to fight in the war. There was no shortage of soldiers in Denerim these days. He blended in, and that's how he wanted it. The less he was noticed, the better chance he had to observe her until he was ready to make his presence known.

The tavern door opened _she_ walked in, looking more confident, mature, and more beautiful than he remembered. Instead of her usual noblewoman's dress, she wore finely tailored armor of an unusual material he couldn't discern. The armor was flexible enough to mold to her curves, and it ended in a skirt that revealed too much leg, in his opinion. The hem of the armor was several inches above her custom-fitted boots, which were made of the same material as her armor and her gloves. Her dark hair was pulled up into a plain ponytail. Everything about her attire was sensible and functional, but he found her new look alluring. Even with the two longswords strapped to her back, she walked as gracefully as a queen.

An elven man, dressed similarly to her, walked in behind her. He was blond, with a showy coiffeur and a curious tattoo on one side of his face. He was older than her twenty-seven years by a decade or more. More, judging by the elf's weathered appearance. She turned back to speak to her companion, and they sat at a table across the tavern. He watched them. The way they interacted, with smiles and laughter, told him they knew each other well. _How well?_ he wondered. Was this her new love? An elf? He wouldn't have guessed she would be attracted to elven men, especially an aging dandy like that one.

From Sebastian's vantage point, he couldn't see Winter's facial expressions, but he saw how the elf looked at her. The man desired her. The thought of them together made him sick with jealousy. He watched at they handed a sword back and forth, and how the dirty little elf brushed her hand with his fingertips. His blood raged inside. The man was using the same little seduction tricks he used to use. Isolating her from others, humor, eye contact, tactile contact, showing interest in the things that interested her…

Another man entered the tavern and approached her. This one was human, tall with dark hair pulled back in a long braid. She looked up with a smile of recognition and… affection? Winter was a friendly sort, but were _all_ of her companions comely men? The elf didn't appear as happy to see the newcomer. Had the human interrupted his plan to have his way with her?

Winter leaned to the elf and confided something, then rose and accompanied the dark-haired fellow toward the bar. Sebastian lowered his face, hoping she wouldn't notice him there. She was evidently too engrossed with her male companion to notice. He noted that she was more serious with this man than with the elf. No laughter graced their conversation. They didn't speak at all on the way, not to the bar, but into the room beside it. The tavern owner held that room for special guests, parties, and meetings. Winter was no stranger here. The owner greeted her as she passed and showed no surprise that she'd go to the private wing.

Sebastian waited until the owner went to see to her guests and the barkeep was occupied. He rose and eased toward the private wing, trying to be as inconspicuous as he could. The patrons were too busy with their drink and conversation to pay him any attention. The room's door was open and he could hear Winter and her companion talking in somber tones, but he couldn't make out the words. He moved closer, leaning against the end of the bar where it joined the wall. From there he caught the end of their talk.

They moved from the corner where they'd been talking toward the door. He could see them, but he was in shadow and hidden from their view. Not that either of them were looking at anything but each other. The man said earnestly, "I'm not abandoning you. I promise you I'll be back."

"Then go. And may the Maker go with you," she answered him. He knew by the throaty quality of her voice that she was crying. The man embraced her and murmured words Sebastian couldn't hear, but he assumed he was declaring his love and repeating his promise to return. Her arms were around the man's neck, clinging to him like…

…_like a lover_

… she expected never to see him again. He kissed her on the brow and told her to dry her tears, then he released her and strode toward the main tavern, past Sebastian without a glance, straight to the door and out. Just like that, he'd left her.

Winter lingered a minute in the room, pulling herself together, wiping away tears with her gloved hands, and then returned to her elf companion. She passed right by him and didn't notice him there. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or insulted. Sebastian ordered another flagon of mead, then returned to his table. Winter and the elven man were engaged in serious dialogue, not the high-spirited banter he'd witnessed earlier.

He'd seen enough. It was time to make his presence known to her. He hadn't come all this way to hide out in a tavern and spy on her. They had important matters to discuss—more urgent than anything these Fereldans had to say.

* * *

Zev noticed the man watching them but he pretended not to see him. Despite his embarrassing failure on his last assassination job with the Crows, he was a well-trained spy and rogue. He could observe the stranger without his target ever knowing he was being watched.

When Winter went to the side room, the stranger left his seat and followed, eavesdropping from near the door. He was obviously no spy—not a professional one—just an overly curious man. Since Zev didn't know who he was or why he was watching Winter, he went on the assumption that the man could be an agent of Loghain, there to follow her and possibly do her harm. If that were so, he wouldn't live to finish his mission. Before the fellow could raise a hand against his benefactor and friend, Zev's dagger would be buried in his throat.

Winter returned, weepy and in need of cheering. The man also returned to his table and resumed his watch. Zev kept the stranger in his view, out of the corner of his eye. Winter related the latest news and grew quiet. Zev hadn't grown fond of his companions, but Winter was special to him. She didn't put on an air of bravado, nor was she rude and sarcastic like Morrigan. She didn't mope and cling like Leliana. She was honest and direct, and he appreciated it. Maybe she was too kind-hearted for her own good, but he couldn't fault her for it. Alistair mooned over her but Zev still didn't believe Winter felt as drawn to her fellow warden as he was to her. If he thought he had a chance with her, Zev would have pursued her. _She made _that_ refusal loud and clear_, he thought with an inner smile. Still, it might just be the thing to bring her out of her blue mood.

"You know, lovely Warden, I can take you to a room and massage that sadness away," he offered, half-jokingly.

She gave him a little smile of acknowledgement—she realized he was trying to lift her spirits and meant no disrespect—but it would take more than that to dispel her melancholy. Her hands were clasped in front of her and her eyes were downcast. She didn't want anyone to see how hard she was fighting back tears. The unexpected turn of events had caught her by surprise, and it couldn't have come at a worse time.

In an uncharacteristic gesture of tenderness, Zev put both hands over hers. "Winter, you are my friend. The only one I consider a real friend, if I may be painfully honest. I have no wish to see you unhappy, but I don't know what to do or say to encourage you. Tell me, is there anything I can do for you? Jokes and offers of physical pleasures aside, of course. I am sincere."

"Thank you, Zev. It means a lot to me."

"You must decide soon, however. My offer of gentlemanly conduct won't last long."

She laughed at that. Not her full, joyous laugh, but a decent laugh. He felt she would be alright. Winter was tough and resilient. Nothing kept her down for long.

* * *

Morrigan whirled on him angrily. "You're doing _what_? What about the war? What about _me_? Is this your way? You share my bed for months and when you weary of me, you move on?"

Aiden tried to embrace her but she held him off. "Morrigan, you know how I feel about you. One thing has nothing to do with the other. This is my family. He's the only family I have left. I have to go to him and tell him what happened to our parents, make sure he's alright, then I'll return. I fully intend to be back before the war."

"I cannot see why you have to rush off for this… this unconcerned relative of yours. Your brother did not take time to search for _you_ or inquire if you had survived the Ostagar massacre. No! He just assumed you'd been killed and eaten by darkspawn and he went on with his business."

Aiden was becoming angry with her. As much as he loved her, he found her insensitive at times, insulting at others, and uncaring of the other party members at _all_ times. At the start of their romance, he had put up with her superior attitude and smugness until he wore her down. Back then he found her irresistible and gorgeous. She was worth the trouble. Now, her pitilessness made him wonder if becoming involved with an apostate, a _witch_ to be exact, wasn't the stupidest thing he could have done.

She ranted, "It doesn't matter what I say or that you know I'm right. You've made up your mind to go after this brother of yours?" He didn't answer. He was done arguing about it. She finished with, "Don't expect me to pine away waiting for you."

"Then don't!" he snapped. "I don't need this possessive woman routine. I love you, Morrigan, but I won't be ruled by a jealous shrew. Let's end this before it gets worse."

"If that is what you wish…"

"It is. Farewell." He stormed out and went to find Winter.

Earlier in the day, a messenger had arrived at the arl's estate looking for him. His brother Fergus, believed killed at Ostagar, had been found alive in the Korcari Wilds, having been wounded by a darkspawn's arrow. He was on his way to Highever and Aiden hoped to intercept him on the way, or reach their old estate ahead of him.

He knew the timing was bad. Winter and the group needed him. But this was family, as he'd tried to explain to Morrigan. She didn't understand his need to go, but he hoped Winter would. He wasn't going to ask her if he could go. He went to tell her he was going.

* * *

Aiden came to the tavern and said he urgently needed to speak with me in private. He looked disturbed, and I was put on my guard. What could have happened to plunge him into such a serious mood? He was normally unperturbed and sometimes flippant, but when I got to know him, I believed his pranks and wisecracks were a mask to hide his sensitive side. Like me, as I've mentioned, he had lost his family to brutal murderers. One cannot live through such a traumatic loss and come out of it completely unchanged.

We went to the room Edwina reserved for special occasions. There, Aiden floored me by telling me he needed to leave right away, and if all went well, he'd be back before the war began. He explained that his older brother hadn't been lost at Ostagar as he'd thought.

"If you can believe this, the lucky bastard got an arrow through the thigh. He's alive today because he couldn't make it back to the fortress. A Chaisnd family took him in. Chaisnd! Can you believe it? They healed his wounds and kept him safe until he was well enough to travel."

He was understandably excited, but I was disappointed that I'd not only be losing one of my best fighters, but a friend as well. "That's wonderful news, Aiden," I said, knowing I couldn't find it in my heart to insist he stay. Knowing, too, that no matter _what_ I said, he would go to his brother.

"You do understand, don't you? I have to try to reach him before he gets to our old Highever estate and finds the wreck Rendon Howe made of it. I don't know if Howe has set up house for one of his mistresses there, but occupied or not, I'm certain the estate is guarded. If I can't reach him before he gets there…" he trailed off. We both knew what might happen to Fergus if he ran across Howe or his guards.

"I do understand. This is family. If I were in your position, I can't say I wouldn't do the same." I understood alright, but I couldn't help feeling an aching emptiness. I was fond of Aiden, and I'd grown closer to him—protective, like a sister—after his brush with death in the Deep Roads. My brave front was crumbling and my eyes betrayed me by filling with tears.

"Don't cry," he said softly. "You won't get rid of me that easily." We walked toward the door, and he stopped to reassure me again. "I'm not abandoning you. I promise you I'll be back."

He reached for me to embrace me, and I flung my arms around his neck, squeezing him tightly. He responded with a gentle chuckle. "If I'd known this was how you'd react, I would have left sooner. And often."

I was too saddened to laugh. "I'll miss you," I whispered. He kissed me on the brow in response. His kindness only made his leaving harder to bear. "Go, then. And may the Maker go with you."

"Explain it to Alistair for me, okay? He was locked up with Arl Eamon and I couldn't get to him." He pulled back to look at me. "Dry those tears. I'm not going to let you face the archdemon without me." I withdrew from his embrace. He gave me an encouraging smile, then he was gone.

* * *

Part 3 – There Must be Some Misunderstanding

"Winter."

The voice, the accent, the way he rolled the 'r' at the end of my name… It was Sebastian.

"What brings you to Ferelden, Brother Sebastian?" I greeted him, disguising my surprise with sarcasm. "You do realize there's a blight here, right?"

"Do you know this person?" Zev asked before Sebastian could answer.

"Yes, it's alright Zev. I know him."

Zev turned his cold golden gaze on Sebastian. "Count yourself lucky, sir. If you had continued to stalk my mentor…"

"That's enough, please," I said to Zev.

Sebastian ignored him and his threat. "Winter, can I speak with you? _Alone?_"

I assured Zev I was in no danger, and accompanied Sebastian to his table. I had a lot to do, little time, and didn't need any distractions, so I cut right to the chase. "What are you doing here?" My tone wasn't welcoming.

"I have news from Starkhaven that you need to hear," he said. "My parents were murdered last month, just like yours were. Not only them, but my brothers and my sister too. I was in Kirkwall when it happened and the killers didn't know where to find me."

Not wanting to sound heartless, but having no time to spend commiserating with an old flame, I said, "You have my heartfelt condolences. Your parents were wonderful people. Is that all? I'm expected…"

"There's more, if you can spare a few minutes." He was holding his temper in check, but barely. "I learned who killed them. A group of mercenaries calling themselves the Flint Company. They are the same ones that killed your parents."

"I see." The information was of little use to me, and _no_ use right now, until the blight was ended. Even then I couldn't set foot in Starkhaven, so I couldn't track them and exact vengeance. "You could have told me this in a letter instead of coming here."

"Are you still so bitter over what I did to you?" His tone softened and he looked remorseful. "I will get to that in a minute. First, I have this for you." He slid a scroll across the table. "It's the deed to your estate in Starkhaven. When I inherited my parents' estate, I learned my mother had bought your house and lands. It's rightfully yours, Winter."

I pushed it back to him. "Keep it. I have no need of it. I've been exiled from Starkhaven, remember?"

"One of my many stupid mistakes," he sighed. "That ruling has been overturned. You are free to come back home."

"I _am_ home. Now, if you're finished, I have an important meeting to attend."

"I'm not finished. _We_ aren't finished. Winter, I was wrong. I said things to you that I shouldn't have said, and I did things I will regret as long as I live. But one thing I don't regret is the love we shared." He reached to take my hand but I pulled back.

Alistair entered the tavern and saw Zev at the table nearest the door. He sat across from him. Zev called his attention to the stranger from Starkhaven that had been watching me and with whom I was now conversing. Alistair started to rise, but Zev advised him to wait and see what would transpire. For once, Alistair took his advice, but he wasn't too thrilled to find me with my former fiancé.

Sebastian continued. "You asked why I was here. There is more. I tracked the Flint Company to Ferelden. To Denerim. They're here in the city. I came to get you to safety before…"

How stupid did he think me? I interrupted his outrageous lie. "Why, what a brilliant plan! If I were running from justice, the first place I'd go is to a country on the brink of being completely overrun by darkspawn and where I had little chance of survival. No one would think to look for me there."

We locked eyes until he was forced to drop his gaze. "Alright. So you saw through my story."

"Lying has become a habit for you, hasn't it, Brother Sebastian? Maybe the grand cleric can counsel you, and then…"

"I've left the chantry." It was his turn to interrupt me. "After my parents were murdered, and no one did anything to bring the killers to justice, I couldn't stay there and do nothing. I've taken back our lands and our castle."

"Congratulations," I said dryly.

_What does he want from me? Why does he think I care if he's a prince or a chantry brother? He's been out of my life for two years now._

He looked surprised by my coolness. "What's happened to you, Winter MacEwan? You're not the girl I used to know."

"No, I'm not that naïve, daydreaming child you remember, Sebastian. I have a new life and a purpose and a new home. I've put Starkhaven and all its memories behind me. That includes memories of you and our former relationship, and even the way it ended. It's over, it's past…"

"Come back with me, Winter," he said, as if I hadn't just told him I was over him. "I am truly, deeply sorry for what I did to you. There is nothing I can say that can excuse what I did. But the reason for it was this: I wanted to be in the chantry but I couldn't bear the thought of you with another man. So I thought of the chaste marriage—"

"Which no chantry would allow."

"That is correct. But I was so desperate to keep you to myself, and so arrogant in my title, that I thought my family's position could sway the grand cleric. She wouldn't hear of it."

"Well Sebastian, thank you for coming, thank you for your apology and your explanation, you are forgiven, and it's time you leave. I have things to tend to that I can't put off any longer."

"Can you not spare me another two minutes?" He pleaded so pitifully that I relented. When I gave a nod, he stated his ultimate purpose in coming to Ferelden. "I came to take you back home. I love you. I've never stopped loving you. Come back to Starkhaven and be princess, as you should be. I swear by the Maker that I'll never hurt you again. Just say you'll come back to me."

"No."

"That's all you can say? 'No'? Without thinking it over or considering our future together?"

"We have no future together, Sebastian. I'm sorry. I do hate having to be so blunt, but I will never return to Starkhaven for any reason. What we had is long past, and long dead. I can't revive feelings that are gone, and feelings that I don't want. Please, for your own sake, go back to your land and forget me."

He reached across the table and snatched my hand. "Winter, you must reconsider…"

"She told you to leave." Alistair stood over us. His eyes were smoldering with rage. "I suggest you do so now, before I have to throw you out of my city."

"Your city, is it? Are you the king of Ferelden, then?" Sebastian challenged. Then he peered at Alistair's face. "Wait… you have the look of a Theirin. You could be Cailin's brother."

Alistair glared at him in stony silence, waiting for him to leave. Or hoping he would draw a weapon…

"Holy Andraste, you _are_ Cailin's brother! You're the Alistair the nobles have been talking about. King Maric's illegitimate son." Sebastian's eyes narrowed and he looked back at me. "So that's what you're about, is it? You jump from prince to prince, hoping to find one to marry you. What happens when this one dies in the blight? Will you go to another country and charm your way into another prince's bed?"

Alistair snatched him by his collar, yanked him out of his chair, and punched him in the face with all his strength. Sebastian literally flew through the air backwards, crashing against the bar and crumpling to the floor, semi-conscious and bleeding from the mouth and nose. Zev stood by with his daggers drawn. I was still in my seat, too surprised by Sebastian's scathing insults and Alistair's swift reaction to move. The inn was as quiet as a tomb.

Alistair motioned to Zev, who sheathed his daggers and walked with him to where Sebastian slumped. They took him by the feet and dragged him to the door. Alistair kicked it open and they flung the Prince of Starkhaven out into the market square. He landed at the feet of a city guard.

"This man assaulted a woman in the tavern," he said, bending the truth a little and making it sound like a physical attack rather than a verbal one.

"What's going on, Warden?" Sergeant Kylon asked. He recognized us from our dealings months ago. "What has this man done?"

His guard answered, "He says the fellow attacked a woman."

"Yes, my companion and fellow Warden," Alistair explained.

Kylon remembered me, and he wasn't having it. "How would you like this handled, Warden?"

Alistair answered, "I'd like him put on the next ship leaving Ferelden, if possible. Put a guard on him and make sure he doesn't get off the ship until it's cleared the port."

"Consider it done," Kylon agreed. He had his men carry Sebastian out of the gates.

"Let's get to Eamon's estate. He's been waiting for you." Alistair's tone was still harsh. Maybe he was angry at me for speaking with Sebastian, but I wasn't ready to ask any man's permission to speak with whomever I wanted—including those I _didn't_ want to speak to, but unfinished business needed to be settled.

"Alright," I answered. I would have preferred to make the short walk in silence, but I did have to tell him about Aiden. "On the way, I need to talk to you. You're not going to like it."

"Well why not?" he snapped. "I haven't liked anything else about the day so far. Let's hear it."

"It's about Aiden…"


	11. Disorder in the Court

Disorder in the Court

Part 1 – "Howe" Goes It?

* * *

"We have a problem, Warden," Eamon began. "I've received word that Rendon Howe has kidnapped Queen Anora and is holding her in Denerim. I need you to go to Howe's estate and rescue her."

Well, wasn't this a predictable twist? Three of Ferelden's most underhanded snakes—Loghain, Anora, and Howe—weren't able to play nice together. I can't tell you how sorely tempted I was to leave her there and see what came of it, but the landsmeet couldn't move forward without the queen present.

"As you wish, Arl Eamon," I agreed. Reluctantly.

"A word of caution," he went on. "Howe is a paranoid man, and with good reason. He's the most hated figure in the city. His estate will be heavily guarded. It's known that he is in Denerim at present, and almost a certainty that he will be at his residence."

_Eamon, if you only knew how long I've looked forward to meeting the man that slaughtered Aiden's family…_

With Aiden away tending to Fergus, I took it as my personal responsibility to gut that bastard Howe and bring Aiden his head on a pike. It wouldn't erase the wrongs done to the Couslands, but it might give Aiden and his brother a measure of satisfaction knowing vengeance had been visited on the traitorous Howe. No one would leave there alive, even if that included Loghain himself.

Alistair, Zevran, Morrigan and I left to aid the queen. It wasn't hard to find Howe's estate. One only had to follow the angry mob. His courtyard was crowded with people jeering, shouting, and demanding to speak to the arl who was bleeding the residents dry with heavy taxes and giving them nothing in return. His treasury was growing fat on the backs of the people he was supposed to govern and protect.

Howe had a small army in there, and they'd been expecting trouble. That was no surprise, considering the arl had the temerity to kidnap Ferelden's monarch. What I found most curious about this situation was that Howe and Loghain were supposedly close allies. Howe's bloody takeover of the Couslands' Highever estate was done with Loghain's approval, if not on his orders. His rise to the rank of Arl of Denerim was also Loghain's doing. Why would he turn on Loghain now, when the regent held the power and Howe was but a slobbering follower, picking up the crumbs Loghain threw his way to keep him on a leash?

No matter. The lackey had slipped his leash, and he needed to be put down.

Anora was being held in a room off the estate's foyer, imprisoned behind a magically sealed door. To open it, Morrigan told us, we would have to find the mage that cast the spell.

"You have two options," she said. "Either force him to remove the ward, or kill him and the ward will vanish."

"Kill him," Alistar, Zev, and I said in unison. We left Anora to stew in her prison a while longer and we went in search of Rendon Howe. The mage could wait. Howe was my target. His room was at the far end of the hall. Between us and him were a company of guards, several mabari, and four mages. The fighting got tougher or we were growing weary, but we finally defeated them all. There were two doors at the end of the hall. The door to our right was locked up tight. I picked the lock, and we discovered Howe's personal treasury. We emptied his storehouse like he'd robbed the citizens of Denerim.

The room on the left was Howe's suite. Beyond his bed was a set of stairs leading down to the dungeon.

"I wonder if he uses his dungeons for his mistresses as well as his political rivals," Zev mused.

"I've said it before, but it bears repeating," Alistair said. "You are a sick little man."

The first room we came to was a small jail and torture room. We took out the lone guard and gave his armor to Howe's prisoner. He was a man Alistair recognized.

"He's one of us, a Grey Warden," he said to me. The man introduced himself as Riordan, senior warden of Jader, a region west of Highever and east of Orlais. He was a native of Highever, but his thirty years among Orlesians had given his accent a thick Orlesian flavor.

Riordan was lured to the estate with promises of assistance in finding the surviving wardens, then he was poisoned, imprisoned, and tortured by Howe. The new arl of Denerim was a sadistic fellow. His hatred of wardens was as irrational as it was unwarranted. Every new thing I learned about him gave me more reason to want to kill him in the most painful way I could devise.

Riordan had suffered much at Howe's hands. The poison wasn't lethal, but it left him nauseous and weak. Injuries he sustained from beatings and racking required attention. We sent him to Eamon's estate for healing and rest. When he left, we pushed deeper into the dungeon.

There were as many soldiers, mages, and guards in the dungeon as in the main house. The further in we went, the heavier the guard. We were getting close to Howe. Rounding the final bend in the dungeon's maze brought us to a single door. It was left slightly open, either to listen for the sound of our defeat or to welcome us into a trap.

"Let's meet our host," I said. I pushed the door open and Howe stood there waiting for us.

_Yep. It's a trap._

"If it isn't the last of the Grey Wardens," he greeted contemptuously. Two mages were stationed at strategic points in the room. Archers and swordsmen stood waiting for his signal to attack. "I trust you found your fellow warden still alive? What a pity. I wasn't done conversing with him."

I didn't recognize the man, but Alistair had met him when he and Eamon arrived in Denerim. He had tiny eyes, a hooked beak of a nose, and a thin mouth curved into a sneer. The mouth had more to say.

"And you brought along 'the man who won't be king'. That almost makes up for you releasing my prisoner. Not that any of you will escape with your lives. But tell me, Warden, what brings you to my home uninvited? Are you still smarting after the loss of your fellow wardens? Or was there something more personal?"

"This is more of a social call, Howe," I answered in a tone similar to his. "I came to talk to you."

"Then by all means, while I can still restrain my men, do regale me with your misguided sense of honor and your tales of derring-do."

"I'd rather discuss the Cousland family," I said, getting right to it. I didn't want to be in this horrid man's company any longer than necessary. He exuded evil in a quantity that would have made Flemeth envious.

"There is no Cousland family," he corrected me. "They've been wiped from the minds of the people of Highever, and now their lands and their people are mine."

"Not quite," I began. "Bryce Cousland's two sons still live."

"Both of them? Truly? That _is _disappointing. Why is the Cousland warden not with you? Does he fear me so much? Or is he ashamed to look me in the eye because he deserted his house and ran away with Duncan and the wardens? You will be sure to tell him how I ravished his sister while my old friend Bryce watched, and how his mother offered herself to me in exchange for her life, won't you? I accepted her offer, of course—Eleanor was a lovely woman—but I'm afraid I couldn't uphold my end of the bargain. I'd promised my men a go at her and young Alyssa as part of their compensation, you see."

"Shut your vile mouth," I snarled. I didn't believe his account of abusing the Cousland women, but I did believe him capable of sadistic, inhuman acts against any of his victims.

"Did I hit a nerve? I didn't realize you and Aiden were so…close." The insinuation was clear. "You should have chosen more wisely, my girl. A real man could have shown you things..." He let out a sigh that was meant to sound part lustful and part rueful. "But if you'll indulge me a moment, Warden, why would a foreigner be so involved in our internal matters? You're not Fereldan. Was there a shortage of men in little Starkhaven, hmm? Oh, that reminds me, we intercepted your countryman at the docks. He told me some tawdry tales about you before he died. You were quite the little harlot in your homeland, weren't you?"

I'd had enough of this repugnant lunatic. If Howe's lies caused my companions to think less of me, that was their problem. Whether he'd really apprehended Sebastian or not was a matter for another time. I had a feeling he'd simply gotten news of another Starkhaven native in Denerim and that the two had never crossed paths. Whatever the case, I wasn't going to be distracted by his drivel.

He was so sure he was invincible, he ignored the fact that we'd left every one of his men dead on our way to him. This little party around him was all he had left, seven of them in all, counting Howe. "I realize you're in love with the sound of your own voice, Howe, but you bore me. Why don't we engage in something more stimulating? You know, something that really gets the blood pumping?" An unwise choice of words on my part, considering I was talking to a pervert.

"If I didn't know better, Warden, I would think you fancied a tumble with me. That could be arranged, you know, once your companions are dead."

Lightning-quick, Alistair drew his sword and held the tip of it to Howe's throat. "Not one more sound, you pig."

"Now there's Maric's good little boy," Howe taunted, heedless of Alistair's seething rage. "Daddy would be so proud of his templar-warden. No, wait. My mistake. Daddy never acknowledged your existence." He turned his attention back to me and added, "I must say, I haven't been this entertained since I last went to the theater. Let's see, when was that?" He raised a hand to his chin, signaling his men to attack.

For an older man, his reflexes were quick. He sidestepped Alistair's sword while he pulled his daggers, going first for Morrigan. She was busy trying to counter the spells from his two mages and unable to avoid his attack. Zev stepped between them and defended her. Howe was a more experienced fighter, but Zev knew more dirty tricks to throw him off his guard. Howe was forced to target someone else. He chose Alistair.

I left them to keep Howe busy while I helped Morrigan kill the mages, then she and I took out the archers and swordsmen. Howe was the last man standing. Desperation made him more dangerous, but he was outnumbered and outmaneuvered. To this day I don't know whose blade felled him—mine, Zev's, or Alistair's—but he dropped to his knees, then collapsed onto his back, bleeding from a number of slash and puncture wounds.

To my disbelieving ears, the dying tyrant chuckled. "Fools," he said, gasping his final breaths. "Anora will… betray…" He stopped to cough, and a fine spray of blood flew from his mouth. He summoned his waning strength and began again. "Loghain…"

"No, Howe. The last name on your mind will be Cousland, you son of a bitch," I said, and drove my sword into his skull.

"Thank you for silencing him," Zev said. "Tiresome fellow, and most vulgar."

"Let's go get Loghain's daughter out of here. Since we have no choice."

"We don't?" Alistair responded. "Oh, of course. The landsmeet."

One of the mages we'd killed was the one who had warded the door, and Anora was free when we got back to her room. "Are you ready to leave?" I asked.

"Don't you have the manners to address me properly?" she demanded.

_Are you serious? I just saved your life and you want me to kowtow to you?_

"Are you ready to leave, _Anora_?" I amended. That was all the manners I could muster for her.

She saw I was too stubborn to bow to her whims. "Very well. I can't go back to the castle because my father arranged for Howe to abduct me and hold me here."

_The classic hate triangle. One betrayal upon another… _

"We'll take you to Arl Eamon's estate. You'll be safe there until the landsmeet."

We stepped into the foyer and were met by a company of Loghain's soldiers, led by his chief sycophant, the homely knight Ser Cauthrien—the woman with the chronic case of penis envy. "Lay down your arms, Warden. You're not going anywhere with Queen Anora. Teyrn Loghain suspected you would try to take her hostage and use her to gain leverage in the landsmeet."

"I don't know how to break this to you, lady, but your boss arranged this little drama," I answered. "Howe took her here on Loghain's orders."

"You LIE!" Anora cried, turning on her rescuers (meaning us, not Cauthrien). "Kill them, Ser Cauthrien! These wardens kidnapped me, they murdered Arl Howe, and they've threatened to kill Father." It wasn't entirely unexpected since she, Howe, and her father were the three-headed monster that held Ferelden in their greedy, murderous, power-mad hands. Howe's last words, "Anora will betray" made more sense. For once, he'd told the truth.

"You bitch! I should have killed you before you set foot out of that room," I snapped back at her.

Two soldiers grabbed her and pulled her out of harm's way, and Cauthrien called the rest of the soldiers to arms. She was no easy takedown, believe me. The woman had earned her title of knight, and she didn't do it on her back as I'd originally thought. She could fight, and fight well. She kept me engaged while her mage hammered me with ice, fire, and stone fist spells.

"The mage!" I called to my companions. They were occupied too, but one of them incapacitated his opponent and went after the mage. The sorcerer was more powerful than Morrigan and he knew a wider range of defensive spells. Morrigan's were almost exclusively offensive, leaving her open to injury and putting us all at risk. But there aren't many spells that can outdo a sharp sword, as I'd learned in the Fade. When the mage was dead, I was able to finish Cauthrien.

We took care of the rest of the company and went to report to Eamon. I didn't know what became of Anora—if she'd been recaptured or taken back to her father. I didn't _care_ what happened to her. Eamon would have to find a way to make the landsmeet happen with or without her.

Part 2 – Liar, Liar

* * *

We were ready to proceed with the landsmeet. There had been no word of Anora since she was hustled out of Howe's estate, but chances were good that she would put in an appearance. She wasn't going to let go of the throne without a fight.

When Alistair and I arrived, the landsmeet was in session. The nobles were gathered on an upper tier overlooking the main floor where we stood. Eamon recounted each of the crimes Loghain had committed against King Cailan and against Ferelden. He ended by stating what most of the people present already knew: that the teyrn was a tyrant, he had incited a civil war, and he was trying to seize the throne from his own daughter.

Loghain stepped forward. "Let's talk about your part in this, Eamon. You're not the innocent, noble soul you'd like the good people here to think you are. Tell them of how you coerced King Cailan to divorce his wife…" he pointed around the upper tier, "…_your_ queen, a born Fereldan… and to wed the empress of Orlais. Cailan would have traded his own country for the title of emperor. A country his father Maric and I fought and bled for! A country his mother defended with her own life! But that foolish boy would have put us under Orlesian rule once more. Not for an heir, as Eamon would have you believe. Not for political advantage. But because, like his father Maric, Cailan loved his whores."

He turned on us and pointed at Alistair. "Here is the product of Maric's dalliance with a scullery maid, an insignificant servant working in his queen's very household. This is Maric's bastard son Alistair, who would be your king if he had his way. Will a day come when one of Cailan's bastards challenges this man's claim to the throne? The bastard son of a legitimate heir against the former king's illegitimate son? It boggles the mind to think how the Theirins have disgraced their own name and tarnished the dignity of the crown."

He wasn't about to leave me out of the fun. "And you, Warden. You're not even Fereldan! What have you to do with my country, and what say do you think you have in this landsmeet? Do you believe being a Grey Warden gives you the right to tell us who should rule?"

"As a native of Starkhaven, I must agree that my part in the landsmeet is open to question. As a Grey Warden, I do not feel I have the right to name Ferelden's next ruler. But as a witness to your crimes at Ostagar, and as one who uncovered your plot with your Orlesian spy inside Arl Eamon's household—his wife Isolde—to have Eamon poisoned by a malificar whom _you_ provided, and with testimony from the templar you and Howe imprisoned because he knew of your crimes against the chantry and the country…" The murmuring among the nobles swelled to an outcry that drowned me out. I had to wait for it to subside to finish with, "Because becoming a Grey Warden in Ferelden automatically bound me to serve King Cailan as if I were a native of this country, _that_ gives me the right to speak out in this assembly."

Loghain changed tactics. "Tell me, Warden, what have you done with the queen? Does she still live, or did you see fit to remove the one obstacle between Maric's bastard and the throne?"

There was something in his tone, a subtle change that told me he was lying. He knew exactly where Anora was, and I believed she was within earshot.

_One good lie deserves another._

"I found her at Rendon Howe's estate, as you know. But what you _don't_ know is that she was in league with Howe, your good friend and chief bootlicker, conspiring to remove you from your station and have you executed for murdering her husband, King Cailan. Howe planned to tell all he knew about your traitorous acts, putting all the blame solely on you, and Anora would appoint him regent upon your death. Anora's part of their agreement was to wed Thomas Howe, naming him prince consort until he could maneuver her into giving him control of the country, or, as Howe would have preferred it, upon Anora's untimely demise. In effect, the Theirin dynasty would end, the Mac Tir dynasty would be snuffed out in a few brief and unremarkable years—less than a footnote in the history books—and the Howe family would become the new rulers of Ferelden. Since Anora's shriveling womb couldn't conceive much less carry a child, Thomas' son, Rendon the Second, would become king upon his death."

Anora ran from the east wing in a rage. "Liar! You wretched liar! I made no such deals with Howe. You're making this up!"

"Am I, Anora? Can you look your father in the eye and convince him that what I've just told him is not the truth?" There must have been some acting talent in my genetic makeup, because I'd just given them one heck of a performance. All lies. Made up on the spot.

"Anora…" Loghain's voice had lost its loud, abrading quality and taken on that of a wounded daddy. He was heartbroken, and if he were a man worthy of pity, I would have felt some for him. "How could you work against me? After all I did for you to insure your place on the throne…"

"Don't believe her, Father. She's lying. I wouldn't play you false." She went to him and gripped his gauntleted hand, gazing up with those big "I-love-you-daddy" eyes. "Howe kidnapped and imprisoned me. He said you'd told him to do it so that the landsmeet would have to be called off. But I knew that couldn't be true."

"It is true." He said it with an unmistakable air of defeat. "I told Howe to hide you in his house, but I never told him to imprison you. That must have been something you cooked up between yourselves to trap the wardens. Was it before or after you plotted to murder me?"

"No! I could never do such a thing! I'm your _daughter_."

"Indeed you are. The same daughter that asked me to rid her of her husband, the king. You knew of it when Cailan went to Empress Celene. You feared she would conceive when you couldn't. Or was it that you _wouldn't_ conceive? You knew as well as I that the landsmeet would approve of a divorce if you were declared barren. Why, Anora? Why did you refuse to give Cailan an heir and secure our line for generations? _You_ brought this upon us."

"Father, hush!" Anora's eyes were wild and her voice trembled. "You're talking nonsense."

"No. For the first time in five years, I'm going to speak the truth." He looked around at the assembly. "Anora and Rendon Howe were complicit in every one of the charges that have been lodged against me this day. Abandoning Cailan on the battlefield, the attempted murder of Arl Eamon, setting up Isolde as a spy in the arl's castle, aiding the escape of a blood mage and placing him in Redcliffe castle, the removal of the Cousland family… All of it. It was she, Rendon Howe, and I who planned those things, and on my orders, they were carried out. I admit my part, but I will not assume all the responsibility. She and Howe were equal partners in these conspiracies."

"You bastard!" she screamed at him. "She tricked you! Are you blind?"

Eamon spoke up. "Is there anyone here who wishes to defend the Mac Tir family against these charges after what we've all just heard?" The room was dead silent. "Then I put forth a motion to depose Anora and place Maric's blood heir Alistair on the throne." The motion went unopposed.

Alistair agreed to assume the throne. "As my first act as king, I sentence Loghain Mac Tir to death, with the sentence to be carried out immediately." Riordan tried to object, saying Loghain could go through the joining and spend his last days fighting the blight as a Grey Warden, but Alistair wouldn't hear of it. He approached Loghain with his sword drawn.

Part 3 – A New Broom Sweeps Clean

* * *

The horrified silence was broken by a woman's sobs. Polished armor captured and reflected the deep red stain of blood that surrounded the body and oozed across the floor in a widening circle.

Moments ago he was the most powerful man in Ferelden. Now his headless corpse lay at my feet, felled by the longsword that once belonged to Maric, then to Cailan.

Anora crouched in the blood by her father's side. She and Loghain had turned on each other, spilling secrets before an incredulous audience. Ignoring the fact that her lies were exposed, she hoped to elicit the nobles' sympathies with her show of tears and feigned grief—an act she rehearsed when she got news of Cailan's death. She fooled the people then because the country was in mourning for its king. They assumed the newly-widowed Anora mourned more deeply than the populace. They were wrong.

When the truth of her involvement in Cailan's death was revealed, we had to marvel at her flair for duplicity. Had we not heard the appalling truth from her own father, she might have gained some support from a few of the nobles. But Anora was a heartless, selfish bitch, desiring only power and wealth. Even now, her tears weren't for Loghain. She mourned the loss of her status, and in doing so, proved she was never worthy of it.

"Your Majesty," Arl Eamon addressed Alistair. He bowed in a gesture of loyalty and respect, and the nobles did likewise. "In light of today's revelations, what is to be done with Anora?"

Anora's grieving act ended abruptly as she leapt to her feet to challenge Eamon. "I defy you, Eamon! And you also, Alistair! I am Cailan's widow and the rightful queen…"

"Enough!" Alistair broke in. He didn't address Anora's claim directly, but responded to Eamon. "This woman is the same as her father was—a traitor, a usurper, and a murderer. She shared Loghain's crimes and she will share his punishment. Remove her from my sight, bring her to the block, and execute her without delay."

I was surprised by his harsh judgment—not because I disagreed with him, but because it wasn't like Alistair to make major decisions without a lot of prodding from me. Had I done the right thing when I'd encouraged him to look out more for his own interests and let others take care of themselves? There was a slight change in his personality after that talk. An almost imperceptible change, truth be told, but I knew him best and I observed it on occasion. He was still the same bumbling, lovable, humorous, gentle, honorable man I'd known from the day I met him at Ostagar, but he was… I wasn't quite sure. Stronger? Yes, the near-constant battles made us all stronger. More confident? Certainly, but more than that. His heart was harder. Not much, and only in the most extreme instances, but there was a new toughness that manifested when the need to be tough arose.

Anora didn't go quietly. The guards had to drag her out, but in Alistair's mind she was already as dead as her father. He was unfazed by her loud protests and virulent curses.

"Maker!" I remarked, shaking my head in disgust. "She's got the charm of the average demon."

"I can't say I ever truly liked the girl, and I didn't think her worthy to be Cailan's queen," Eamon agreed. "But to learn that she and Loghain conspired to have him killed in battle sickens me."

Arl Eamon was appointed regent, and Alistair made me the commander of his armies. Not really a new job for me, since I'd been leading the party, making all the decisions, and even consulted by Eamon and Teagan for my advice. But it was an honor nonetheless.

A wild-eyed scout burst through the door. "Darkspawn!" he shouted repeatedly. Alistair and I glanced at each other for confirmation. Neither of us sensed darkspawn. Alistair snagged the man by his tunic as he tried to run past us to Arl Eamon.

"Calm yourself and speak sense," Alistair said. "There are no darkspawn here."

The scout shook his head so vehemently I feared his neck would snap. "Not here, Warden. To the south and west, moving toward Redcliffe. Thousands of them. The entire horde, I'd say."

"Did you see an archdemon—a dragon—leading them?" I asked him.

"Dragon?" he repeated, turning those terror-filled eyes on me. "Andraste's pale flabby arse, Warden, why would you ask that? No! No dragon." He named the creatures he'd seen, counting them off on his fingers. "There were ogres, big as trees. And the other ones… the tall ones with the fancy helmets, like officers. And the tall ones without helmets that look like half-rotted corpses. And the small ones that look like darkspawn dwarves." He thought a moment and added, "And them screaming ones with the hands like knives."

"Ogres, hurlocks, genlocks, shrieks, nothing different," I muttered to myself. Why such a large horde but no archdemon?

This was a blight; I sensed it as surely as I heard the archdemon's whisperings in my sleep. Alistair was convinced of it as well. Riordan had left the landsmeet chamber and was on his way to try to learn more of the darkspawn's plans and position.

_Assuming Riordan wasn't found and killed before he could report back_. It was a disheartening thought that I quashed before I could utter it aloud.

Eamon left immediately for Redcliffe Castle, and we returned to the arl's Denerim estate to collect the rest of our companions. Alistair seemed comfortable leading, and I was glad to let him take command. After so many months of decision-making and defending my decisions, I was ready to turn over the reins. He decided we would rest for the night at the estate and depart for Redcliffe in the morning, since the sun was setting and we would be forced to make camp just outside Denerim.

Sten protested the delay. Alistair gave the reasons for our overnight stay, then informed Sten that if he wasn't happy with the arrangement, he could go on ahead and deal with the darkspawn on his own. "You'll recall how well that worked out for you last time," he finished.

"Authority suits you," I commended Alistair when the others were out of earshot, and added facetiously, "What happened to the shy, insecure man I used to know?"

His smile was grim. "He changed for the better, I believe, when the weight of the kingdom fell upon him."

A profound truth indeed! I couldn't imagine how he felt knowing that he would soon be leading our troops into battle, and if we survived this war, he'd be leading a country. "You made the right choice when you accepted the throne, Alistair. You were born for this."

"Yes. I thought Cailan would rule Ferelden and I would die at the end of a darkspawn's blade in the Deep Roads, never having to make a decision for myself, much less for a whole country. Now all I want is to end this blight, rebuild Ferelden's cities and reunite her people, and be the best king I can be. I trust you'll be there to lend me your wisdom, as you always have."

"Of course I'll be there," I answered, "since that sounded more like an order than a request."

He chuckled softly and gathered me into an armor-clanking embrace. "It wasn't intended to be an order." He kissed me on the cheek and released me. Embracing in armor isn't nearly as romantic as people might think. "Once we get through this blight, I have things to discuss with you. I'd tell you about it now but I want to wait for a better time, when I'm not distracted with war."

"As you wish, Your Majesty," I said with a bow.

"That title sounds so strange," he reflected. "We've joked about it, but now that it's a reality, I'm thinking I'll grow to like it."

We bid goodnight and retired to our separate quarters. Tomorrow we would begin the four-day trek to Redcliffe, and until we were there or met the horde on the way, we could not know what lay in store. So far, no one had seen evidence of an archdemon. Would we recognize it before it was in our midst? Even if the beast were revealed, could we defeat it? Or were our preparations and struggles in vain against an immortal foe?

I passed the night with those and other troubling thoughts—including the vision of Alistair beheading Loghain again and again in my mind's eye—keeping me awake. I rose before dawn, put on the layers of garments and padding and armor, sheathed my swords, and went downstairs to wait for the rest of our party.

Alistair was at breakfast, fully armored and armed as I was. I'd found Duncan's shield in the Warden's cache and was waiting for the right time to present it to him. I had hoped for a special occasion, but like Duncan and like the shield itself, practicality overrode sentiment. Alistair did get misty-eyed when he held it, but quickly resumed his warrior-king-warden persona when the others came in.

There was an absence of appetite and conversation that morning. The war occupied everyone's thoughts. Even the normally irrepressible Zev offered none of his bawdy or morbid jests. Leliana seemed to be in some kind of spiritual meditation—a pleasant change from her inappropriate comments about Zev's performance, or her equally improper observations about Alistair's physique. Morrigan refrained from making her customary verbal jabs at Alistair. Oghren's bad temper and atrocious manners were mercifully subdued. Wynne kept her intrusive advice to herself.

The only ones who seemed unaffected by the gravity of our situation were Shale and Sten. Shale was indestructible, as immortal as the archdemon itself. Sten's appetite wasn't affected. If anything, there was an air of anticipation about him. This was what he'd been sent to Ferelden to observe. Being able to participate in the war was an unexpected boon. His long wait was finally over and he was eager to engage the enemy.

Alistair stood and urged the members of the party to finish their breakfast and collect their belongings. The time had come to leave for Redcliffe.


	12. The Eve of Battle

The Eve of Battle

Part 1 – Fool Me Once, Shame On You…

* * *

We met a few clusters of darkspawn on the way to Redcliffe and destroyed them before they could join the main horde. With luck, we would reach the village ahead of the enemy and defend from Redcliffe Castle.

My first glimpse of the village filled me with dread. Evidence of darkspawn was everywhere. Slaughtered livestock, burning buildings, crumbling bridges, and bodies of slain civilians littered the hills leading down to the town. The gates barring the way to the castle were torn off and smashed to splinters. The windmill stood undamaged but there were small fires near enough to spread to it if the wind changed direction.

My blood vessels stung with the familiar taint, signaling the close proximity of darkspawn. From our vantage point at the top of the hill we could see a swarm of the monsters in the village square. We put them down quickly and looked around. There wasn't a sign of life in the houses, shops, or the chantry. The village was deserted. I hoped the residents made it to safety.

"This isn't much of an horde," Alistair commented. I was thinking the same thing. The ones we killed must have arrived ahead of the main body of the horde. He took a last look around, and when he was satisfied that there were no darkspawn lurking, he said, "Let's get to the castle."

We encountered many more of the monsters in the castle courtyard. They came in waves, and as we killed one wave, another would follow. As suddenly as the attacks began, they stopped.

A castle guard approached and led us to the hall where Eamon, Teagan, Eamon's knights, and officers of the human, elven, and dwarven armies were gathered. The Guerrins were relieved to see us alive and unharmed. Eamon had barely made it to the castle before the attacks began.

While we spoke, Riordan came in from the upper floor where he had been resting. "I am happy to see you made it here safely," he began. "I have news of the horde, and I fear your journey here was for naught."

"What?" Alistair demanded. "We trudged four days across Ferelden 'for naught'? What do you mean?"

"The archdemon has shown itself," Riordan announced. "He sent only a small portion of his army here as a distraction. The horde is marching on Denerim."

"Maker," I groaned. I was dead-weary from the long march, and now we had to return for the real battle. Who would have the strength left to fight when we reached Denerim?

"Assemble the armies," Alistair commanded. "Eamon, how soon can your men be ready to march?"

"We can leave at dawn," Eamon replied.

Alistair said, "Right. At dawn we begin a forced march on Denerim. That bastard isn't going to take my city." He ordered messengers to be sent to the dwarven, Dalish, and templar armies, instructing them to go directly to Denerim. We would meet them there.

"We should all try to get some rest before we set out," Eamon suggested. "The servants will show you to your quarters."

Riordan asked Alistair and me to meet him in his room for a briefing before we slept. "I have some warden business we must discuss before we retire."

I was ready to get the talk over with so I could sleep. I'd napped on the ground each time we made camp between Denerim and Redcliffe, but the growing threat brought stronger nightmares, each more real and frightening than the one before. I hoped my fatigue would keep the worst of the dreams at bay.

_Just one night of rest, please. That's all I need. Just tonight, and I'll be ready to face the enemy with all my strength._

A castle servant showed Alistair and me where our rooms were. His was in a hallway adjacent to the one where my room and Riordan's were located. We entered Riordan's room and he got right to the point. Only a Grey Warden could kill an archdemon, he said. When the archdemon died, the warden died as well. As the senior warden, and knowing he had little time before he perished from the taint, Riordan claimed the right to make the kill. If he failed, he said, the responsibility fell to me. Alistair would normally have been next in line, but because he was now king, Ferelden needed him more than it needed me. Over Alistair's protests, I agreed with the plan.

"But it won't come to that," I assured him. I was not reassured myself, but he didn't need any more to worry about.

"It's settled then," Riordan declared. "Let us get some rest."

* * *

Alistair was disturbed by the news Riordan had given them. It was true, as he'd said; Duncan had never told him that only a Grey Warden could slay an archdemon, and what happened to the warden in the process.

Riordan was senior warden, as powerful and experienced as Duncan had been, but the torture he'd endured had left him weakened. Scant days had passed since they'd rescued him from Howe's estate. His injuries hadn't had time to heal. He needed weeks of rest, and various healing spells and potions, to regain his full strength. Even then, the taint had taken its toll on him and would soon claim his life.

If Riordan wasn't strong enough to kill the archdemon—and Alistair wasn't convinced he was—that meant either Winter or he would have to kill it, and whoever did would die. This is what Alistair found most troubling. He didn't fear dying. Killing the archdemon and ending the blight would be the best thing he could do for Ferelden—his first and last act as king—but he couldn't bear the thought of losing Winter. She would want to make the killing blow and spare him, as he would do for her.

She had the spirit of a lioness and a strong will; she would be able to go on without him. It broke his heart to think of her mourning him, but she would recover. The Winter he'd known for the past year, and grown to love with all his being, was a survivor. She had been through terrible things, before she came to Ferelden and since she'd joined the wardens. Each difficult experience seemed to make her more determined, more capable.

He didn't possess her kind of inner strength. He needed her. The mere thought of life without her was more than he could bear. They'd come so close to having the future he'd dreamed of, but what stood between them wasn't just a war with a possibility that one of them wouldn't survive. It was a death sentence for one of them.

A noise at his door broke his concentration. "What do you need?"

"I have a proposal you will want to consider carefully," Morrigan answered.

* * *

Alistair walked out ahead of me without pausing to bid me goodnight. He was preoccupied, and understandably so. The upcoming war filled my thoughts too. I left Riordan's suite and went to my own. It was a little smaller than Riordan's, but cozier. A fire blazed in the fireplace. Someone had laid out a soft white cotton gown or a dress on the foot of my bed. It looked incongruous beside my armor and weapons, but it was appreciated. For tonight, I could put aside swords and warfare, and feel like a woman again instead of just another warden.

Even better, the room had a stone bath and ewers of water, warm and cold. Scented soap sat in a fancy silver footed holder. An ornate comb and brush set were laid beside the soap dish. Whoever had prepared my room did it with great care.

_Isolde's leftovers, most likely._

I didn't care who they belonged to before. I hadn't put my hands on finery like this since I left Starkhaven. This was a most thoughtful gesture on the part of my gracious host, and I wasn't going to let it go to waste. I stripped off my dusty, bloodstained armor and undertunic, stepped into the bath, and poured the entire ewer of warm water over my head.

* * *

Part 2 - …Fool Me Twice, Shame On Me

After my bath, I slipped the gown on. It was loose, fragrant, and comfortable. There were lacings at the sides to adjust the fit, but for sleeping it was just fine. I was ready for what might be the last good night's sleep in a long while… or my last ever. But I couldn't dwell on that sort of thing. Deep down—I don't know how or why I felt this—I was confident that we would win the battle and end the blight.

I decided to check on Alistair before I turned in and see if he was still awake. I was concerned for him. He had a lot on his mind, not the least of which was the revelation Riordan had given us. I wanted to make sure he wasn't losing precious sleep by worrying needlessly.

Slipping quietly past the closed doors in my bare feet, I took care not to wake my sleeping companions. When I neared Alistair's room, I saw that his door was open and a candle was still burning.

_Good, he isn't sleeping yet. Maybe we'll have a minute to talk._

As I got closer, I heard hushed voices. Alistair's voice.

"Then you swear you'll leave and we'll never see each other again? Neither you nor… the child?"

"That is right. After the battle, I will be gone." It was Morrigan. What was she doing in his room at this hour?

"Winter will never know of this?"

"Not from me. If you wish to tell her—"

"No!" His voice rose, but not so loudly that it would disturb anyone else. "No, she is not to learn of it." He sighed heavily and there was a short silence. Then he said, "Very well. I'll lie with you, but as soon as we're done I want you gone."

"Then let us waste no more time talking," she purred. I was almost at his room, and I watched the backstabbing whore saunter to the door and push it closed. Before it shut completely, she looked me in the eye. I thought I saw the corners of her mouth curve up slightly in a triumphant smile. Then the scene was cut off from my view and I heard the bolt slide home.

I stood in the hallway, frozen like a statue, too numb to move. Alistair, the man who had said he wanted me to be his only lover, had elected to sleep with Morrigan—with _Morrigan_ of all people, the woman he claimed he hated. _Why_? I had refused to sleep with him at camp, but he said he understood and agreed. There had to be more reason than that.

And why would _she_? Because she'd lost her lover, did she think to borrow mine? Was she so backward in her swamp witch upbringing that she thought this was acceptable between friends? That civilized women used each other's men with the same casualness that they borrowed each other's clothing?

I couldn't breathe. Fury and jealousy would smother me if I didn't get out of the castle and as far from Redcliffe as I could go. I hurried down the stairs and was frustrated to see the castle doors bolted and guarded. They were to remain secured until Arl Eamon gave leave.

I smothered the urge to plead to be let out, knowing it would avail nothing, and I gathered my wits. The guards were eyeing me quizzically. "Is there a passage to the garden where I can go to work out battle plans? King Alistair has asked me to provide him with a strategy. With all the snoring upstairs near my suite, I can't think." I put on a sheepish expression for their benefit to complement my story.

The guards looked taken aback at the words "_King_ Alistair," since he had not been officially crowned and few knew he was Ferelden's new monarch. "The arl has ordered that no one go out until the army is ready to march, Warden," one of them answered, "but on the upper floor is a terrace overlooking the lake. No one would disturb you at this time of night. Would that suffice?" I replied that it sounded perfect for my needs. He showed me a shortcut to the top floor and gave directions to a door at the far end of the hall that opened to the terrace.

I found the door to the terrace and practically fell through it in my haste to get outdoors. The night air was cool and there was a breeze coming off the lake. I gulped in great, heaving, sobbing breaths, giving myself the hiccups.

The night sky was reddish, giving a bloody tint to the full moon. How fitting. A low wall of stone surrounded the terrace. I rested my hands on it and looked over the edge. It wasn't such a long fall to the ground, I convinced myself. I could pull myself over the wall and drop to the garden. Then what? I had no armor, no weapons, no shoes, and even if I survived the fall, I'd probably be killed by the guards before they realized who I was. Don't get me wrong—I wasn't suicidal. I simply didn't care what happened. Not to me, not to those two rutting beasts on the floor below, not to the darkspawn or the archdemon or to anyone. And if this was what the Maker had in mind for me, I didn't care about Him either.

I regretted that last thought right away. This wasn't the Maker's doing. But I didn't have the will to repent. I was too angry, too emotionally used up. So I stood there, confused and once again betrayed, vacillating between numbness and searing heartache. I closed my eyes and let the night breeze wash over me, chilling me and tossing my still-damp hair about. Maybe, if I stood there long enough, it would push away every thought but one—driving my sword through the archdemon's head, then leaving this cursed world for the silent halls of oblivion. To the void with Alistair, Morrigan, the archdemon, and Ferelden.

A tear forced its way out and trickled down my face. Followed by another. And a third.

_Don't waste tears on him. He's not worth it. Is he suffering? Hardly._

That line of reasoning wasn't helping. I had to clear my mind, force Morrigan's yellow reptilian eyes from my memory, forget the sound of Alistair's voice speaking words of guile, and focus all my energy on the upcoming battle. Between now and the time we reached Denerim, I would avoid Alistair entirely. My orders had been given; I had no need to consult with anyone but the troops, and even then, not until we were nearing the battle site. The forced march meant no long stops, no rest, and no time to waste in conversation.

My inner struggle was so intense that I didn't hear anyone approach, and thought I was alone until I felt a hand on my shoulder. I startled so violently that the visitor began to sputter apologies. The voice was familiar. Friendly. Male. It was Bann Teagan.

"Forgive me, I beg of you, my lady," he pleaded. "I should have announced my presence. How stupid of me."

I shook my head, still battling for control of my emotions. It was difficult to speak, but I managed, "No, please. You did nothing wrong. I'm just…I wasn't…" That was as far as I got before a strong trembling gripped me. I averted my eyes, turned my face from his, and tried not to let my angst show in my movements. It was a futile attempt. Such deep misery could not be hidden from one as compassionate as Bann Teagan.

He took both my hands and guided me to a table and chairs I'd not noticed when I stepped onto the terrace. We sat, and he kept hold of my trembling hands. His gentle blue eyes searched my face. At last he spoke. His tone was soothing, sympathetic and concerned.

"I know fear when I see it, but you aren't afraid, are you? And I also know pain, heartache, and suffering. These, my dear lady, are what I see in your face. Will you tell me what is troubling you?" I shook my head in the negative, and he went on. "I will not pry into your affairs. My only wish is to comfort you, to help you if I can, in any way I can." I nodded my thanks, as I didn't dare speak for fear of bursting into tears.

He released one of my hands but held the other tightly. His free hand reached up to stroke my cheek. "Winter," he said softly. "Let me help you. Please."

I raised my eyes to meet his gaze. His tender look dissolved into one that mirrored my pain. "Oh Maker! What is it, dear one? Who has hurt you so badly you cannot even speak?"

My control slipped away and I dropped my head. Hot tears rained down, drenching his hand and mine. My body was wracked with sobs. Teagan rose from his chair and pulled me from mine. He held me to his chest and I wept a torrent of despair and rage. Rage at Morrigan for deceiving me all along, pretending to be a hard-won friend to disguise her duplicity. Rage at Alistair for playing the part of the gentleman, the humble and reluctant prince, and the devoted lover—each role acted so convincingly that I never thought he would betray me. And most of all, rage at the scene that played out so vividly in my head: Morrigan and Alistair lying together.

Morrigan was a beautiful woman. Inherently evil, yes. Hateful to those she disliked, to be sure. Manipulative and cunning and cruel. But visually striking, and she dressed so provocatively that she drew admiring or lustful looks from everyone who saw her. Even the stoic Sten hadn't been unaffected by her sensuality. It seemed nearly every man desired her _except_ Alistair, who claimed to despise her on sight. Yet there he was, in her arms, in his chambers, in his bed.

Was this her way of getting back at Aiden for leaving her? If so, why did she choose Alistair? Why did she want him now if she despised him as she claimed? Was it because he was to be king? As a Grey Warden, he had nothing to offer her. But as the king of Ferelden, he'd have wealth, power, and a country at his command. She'd always said he was weak, and for many months, he _was_ weak. She, as the witch-queen, could easily rule over him with her spells.

"Stop!" The soundless plea came from the depths of my being. It felt like my heart was physically being torn in two. I had grieved hard when Sebastian ordered my execution, but even his lies, fanaticism, and betrayal caused me less anguish than this. I didn't know if I could even _look_ at Alistair again after tonight.

When my tears were spent, extreme weariness took hold. Teagan still held me, and his embrace was the only thing keeping me on my feet. If he released me my knees would buckle and I would crumple to the floor. He sensed this, and before I could protest, he swept me up in his arms and carried me indoors. The nearest suite was his, and he brought me inside, kicked the door closed behind him, and sat me on his bed.

"Let me fetch you some spiced wine. Stay here until you feel ready to return to your room. Or if you prefer, you can take this room and I'll find another."

"I can't." My voice was a weak croak of sound.

As nice as my room was, it was nowhere near as large and elegant as this room. I'd been in Eamon's suite before, when I delivered the sacred ashes. Teagan's suite was much like Eamon's. Spacious and luxurious, furnished in fine wood and rich velvet.

"You can, you must, and you will," he urged. He added with a smile, "Unless my suite is too squalid for my lady's high-born tastes."

His attempt to cheer me was endearing. I liked Teagan from the day I met him, when we first happened upon Redcliffe and found the village under attack. He had slipped up at least twice and voiced his attraction to me, which had amused me at the time. His character was impeccable, his manners knightly, and he was handsome besides. It was impossible _not_ to like him.

"Thank you, Teagan, for everything," I said sincerely. "But I should return to my room now."

"You'll do nothing of the kind," he scolded. "_This_ is your room. I've taken a fancy to your old suite and I mean to have it. If you're unhappy with my choice, you can report me to Eamon or Alistair in the morning." His voice was stern but his eyes sparkled with good humor.

"Have it your way," I relented. "You mentioned something about wine, did you not?"

"Indeed I did." He produced a bottle of wine and two cups from a cupboard.

The wine was excellent, and it relaxed me enough so that I could try to rest. It would have taken bottles of it to silence my thoughts, but a cup was enough to muffle them.

"You are too kind to me," I remarked. "I'm truly honored to have you as a friend."

"The honor is all mine, my dear lady. There is little in this life more priceless than your friendship."

"I've said it before, Bann Teagan. You're a flatterer."

"And you, my dear, are too formal. I am merely Teagan, your servant. No titles are needed between us, unless that is your wish."

"Nonsense," I huffed. "You are my friend, not my servant. And no, I don't want formality between us."

"Friends, you say again? If that is all you want us to be, I hope you will count me as your most trusted friend."

What was he implying? If that was all I wanted to be…? Did he want us to be more than friends? Lovers? For just one night? For an evening of comfort before battle?

"What do _you_ wish us to be, Teagan?"

He sat on the side of the bed. "If you will indulge a foolish man, I will speak plainly, Winter. I don't believe I will survive the war, and I don't want to die with these words unspoken. I've admired you since I first got to know you. Your beauty caught my eye, and your compassion, courage, and character captured my heart. Before you and your party left Redcliffe, I was falling for you. You are always in my thoughts. I don't fear for my life, but I do fear for yours. I love you, Winter. If it were within my power, we would be much more than friends. I would have you as my wife."

Need I say how surprised I was by his declaration? Alistair offered a one-night romp in my tent. Teagan offered his heart. It took me a few moments to find my voice. "Teagan, I don't know what to say. I'm flattered, but…" I trailed off. I truly didn't know how to respond to such devotion.

"You needn't say anything," he answered, and his sadness tore at my heart. "I understand."

"No, you _mis_understood," I corrected him, "and you didn't let me finish."

"Please finish," he prompted.

"I have one fear in this life, and that is a fear of love," I admitted. "I can face foes, battle, wounds, a darkspawn horde, an archdemon, and even death without a qualm, but to give my heart, only to have it crushed again, is more than I can do."

"I swear by all that is holy, I am incapable of hurting you," he said, and I believed him. "I love you with my entire being."

_Don't I deserve a few hours of happiness? Am I not allowed to be selfish, and to take comfort when it's freely offered? I haven't felt a man's touch in over two years. Why should I continue to cling to meaningless values when death is only a few days away?_

"I don't know what will happen in this battle any more than you do," I said. "We could both die, and if what Riordan says is accurate, it's likely that we will. Even if we survive, I can't promise that I will remain in Ferelden." One last check of my conscience found it unperturbed, and I finished, "But if you are willing, I can promise you tonight."

The expression on his face wasn't one of lust or conquest. There was a purity of emotion I'd not seen in any man. "If I should spend my last night loving you, I can die knowing I'd realized my fondest dream," he responded. He pulled me to my feet, embraced me, and we shared a long, deep kiss. There was no turning back now. Not even if I wanted to.

* * *

Part 3 – Season of the Witch

Alistair threw off his armor and lay in his small clothes, eager to be done with the deed so he could wipe this night and this wretched woman from his memory. He averted his eyes when Morrigan approached him with slow, tantalizing steps, fixing her sultry gaze on him, eyeing his body like a ravenous bereskarn. He flinched when she crawled onto the bed. Just the _thought_ of her touch made his skin creep.

"Stop resisting, Alistair," she purred. "I assure you, you will not hate it."

"I already hate it," he answered through clenched teeth. "Get it over with and leave me, witch." He reminded himself why he was doing this. It was for Winter's sake, to save her life. He loved her deeply, but right now he resented Winter being in his life. If not for her, he wouldn't have to lie with the woman he detested more than he hated Loghain.

The resentment quickly passed, replaced by guilt. But no momentary qualm over a mere thought would compare to the shame he would feel for lying with a witch-whore like Morrigan.

He tried to reason his way out of it. If Riordan failed, he would deal the killing blow himself. Death was preferable to living without his beloved; he'd already determined that much. But he knew Winter—her determination, her valor, and her stubbornness. She would insist on saving him instead. He could try to dissuade her, try to overpower her if necessary, but she was quicker and more agile than he. It was almost a certainty that she would find a way to dart past him and kill the archdemon herself.

The solution Morrigan offered was the only way he could be sure Winter would live. It was also the most distasteful thing imaginable. He'd kept himself pure all his life, with great discomfort, and for what? To have a wanton apostate as his first sexual partner? He wanted his first, his _only_ lover, to be Winter. He gladly agreed to wait until they were married to please her and to assure her that he was hers alone. And now this.

This "ritual" would result in the witch conceiving a child—_his_ child. He didn't want to think about the kind of beast she and her mother would raise. This was blood magic; he knew it for what it was. He felt the stain of it. As for the child, he knew he would spend the rest of his life wondering when his bastard son would come to him and challenge him for the throne.

But it always came back to Winter. Morrigan had told him that Riordan would fail to kill the archdemon. She had foreseen his death and related it in convincing detail. Then she swore to him that no warden would die from killing the archdemon if her ritual were carried out on _this_ night. Winter would live. Her absolute assurance decided him. Clinging to irrational hope, he surrendered himself.

The room went blacker than the deepest pit of the Deep Roads. He couldn't see his hand if he'd held it an inch from his eyes. He was dimly aware of Morrigan, but no longer fully conscious of her presence. There was something else in the room.

_What room?_ His suite was gone and he found himself laid out on a stone altar, bare and cold, like an offering to a malignant god, in an unfamiliar cavern. Torches flickered around the cave, too far away to illuminate the altar well, but enough for him to discern shadows and shapes. There seemed to be hundreds of demonic beings lining the walls. Their images appeared, vanished, and reappeared with the dancing torchlight.

_A dream. I'm having a nightmare. Thank the Maker. I thought it was real._

Black tendrils snaked from the walls of the cavern toward the altar, climbing up its sides, slithering over his arms, legs, neck, and torso, as if exploring him. He expected their touch to be cold and wet, but instead they were warm and silky. Pleasant. Relaxing.

His blood began to burn in his veins. The taint was awakened, reaching toward its master. The archdemon was near. Soon the whispering would start…the evil lord speaking to his children.

"Grey Warden, you human refuse, you fool," the voice greeted him. It wasn't like the dreams he'd had before. This time, it felt as if the archdemon was right beside him, speaking into his ear. He tried to turn his head but couldn't move.

The voice continued, "Your ritual is in vain, Grey Warden. I know of the witch's plan, and it will fail. I will devour her and her offspring before nightfall tomorrow, and then, when your armies are vanquished and your countrymen lay dead in the wasteland you call your kingdom, I will come for you. I will devour you slowly, and you will experience pain beyond comprehension before I end your life."

The pain was beginning even now. It went from his veins to his internal organs, to his lungs and his heart and to every part of him, burning like liquid fire, like molten lava, cooking him alive slowly…slowly. The stone altar warmed from the heat of his body, becoming too hot to bear, blistering his skin, and still he was unable to move. The soft tendrils were tentacles, barbed with poisoned thorns, digging into his flesh and holding him fast.

_Winter, my love, forgive me. I don't think I can last much longer. Ferelden is lost, but you can live. Flee the battle, go to the Free Marches, or to Antiva ,or to the Anderfels. Anywhere but here. _

"Ah yes, Winter MacEwan, human garbage," the archdemon mocked. "You believe she loves you but she cannot say the words. Have you not wondered why that is so? It's a most interesting tale. And now, while you lie suffering, she receives pleasure from another man. Shall I put the vision of them in your mind so you can watch them as I am watching? Did you think she would grieve for you? She has forgotten you. You are desolate, you wretched little worm of a king."

_This is a nightmare. Only a nightmare. Something filling my head with lies. Blood magic. Abomination. The archdemon never speaks like this. He speaks to his horde, not to me. Just a foul dream… a nightmare._

Alistair's strength was waning. He had been straining against the tendrils but he couldn't escape their ironlike grip. Suddenly, his pain rose to its zenith when his seed was ripped from his body by wicked claws, gushing from him in a fount of blood and gore and bits of ragged flesh. He opened his mouth to scream in excruciating agony, but he was incapable of forming sound. As the fount slowed, trickled, then stopped, he lost consciousness.

How much time had passed since he fell asleep? He couldn't tell. His mind was sluggish. Thoughts were difficult to put together. Memories…

_Winter. Morrigan. The ritual. The nightmare. The pain. Maker's breath, the pain!_

He threw back the quilt. He was naked. His groin ached worse than a rotted tooth, but to his unspeakable relief, his parts were intact. How much of it was a dream and how much was real? One thing was real. Morrigan, the spiteful bitch. The ritual, if that's what it was. Knowing that devious whore, it was her last prank on him—pretending there was a valid, pressing need for him to lie with her. He felt defiled, violated by an abomination masquerading in human flesh.

He swung his legs off the side of the bed, wincing at the soreness that reached from his neck to his ankles. His ankles…

"Shackles," he muttered, observing the red rings just above his feet. The memory of the black tendrils flitted through his mind. His wrists bore the same marks as his ankles. With no mirror in the room, he couldn't see the red welt around his neck.

He shut his eyes and tried to remember the details of the dream, but they receded into the chasm of forgetfulness. He tried harder, focusing on the things he could recall, but with no results. Whatever happened, it was probably best he _didn't_ remember it.

He needed to talk to Winter. To confess what he'd done and beg forgiveness for his one act of faithlessness. To explain to her why it had to happen.

No, that wasn't entirely true. It didn't have to happen. He _chose_ to do it; he wasn't forced against his will. Wouldn't it have been better for them both to die? But it was his decision to accept or refuse. His acquiescence was further evidence that he would make a horrible king. Probably a sorry husband as well.

_Assuming she will even _listen_ to a proposal now, much less agree to marry me._

If the situation were reversed, he would be emotionally crushed regardless of the reason for the act. But he trusted in her ability to accept and forgive. They would help each other, as they'd always done, and together they would be able to put last night behind them as if it really were just a bad dream. He need only choke down his revulsion long enough to get through today. And then tomorrow. And the next day.

He stepped out into the hall. The castle was quiet. Everyone was still sleeping. He went to the right, through the door into the next hallway, and stopped outside Winter's suite. His breeches were chafing his male parts, and he tugged at the fabric to loosen it.

_Great. Not only did I lie with a witch, I got swamp witch crotch rot in the bargain. I'll be lucky if the damned thing doesn't fall off. Maybe luckier if it did._

Winter's door was closed and her room was silent. Beneath the door, feeble rays of light from her fireplace reached for him. He instinctively took a step back, then snorted at his jumpiness.

_It was a nightmare, you idiot, _he thought. He raised his hand to knock on her door, but something stopped him. Not a force, not a persistent dream-tendril, but a staggering wave of guilt, shame, and nausea. How could he face her? He could still detect Morrigan's scent on his skin. Did he think he could approach Winter in such a state? Was there enough water in all of Lake Calenhad to cleanse him of the witch's vile touch?

Defeated and broken-hearted, he turned from her door and walked to the end of the hall, to the window beside Riordan's door. He could see the moon and stars, and from their position, he gauged the time at about 3 a.m. The best thing for everyone was for him to go back to his suite and try to sleep. If he spent the rest of this night miserably, he deserved no less.

* * *

Part 4 – Kiss from a Rose

Teagan's love for me was genuine; of that I had no doubt. In many ways, he was a better match for me than Alistair. He was older, experienced, and responsible. He deferred to me only in my position as a warden, but in the things that didn't involve darkspawn and demons, he was in fully in charge, determined and self-reliant. I found his uncompromised masculinity mesmerizing.

He was decidedly knowledgeable in the art of love, and I hoped I would not be a disappointment to him. My past experience was limited to one man—to four stolen, hasty encounters. The attention that Teagan lavished on me was an entirely different experience from anything I'd known or could have imagined. His skillful caresses and fiery passion swept away every hurtful, negative thought. I was immersed in his love, not drowning but _thriving_ in it. It was the kind of intimacy a new groom shared with his bride on their wedding night. It was… beyond description.

Afterwards I lay with my head on his chest, comforted by the strong, steady beat of his heart. I waited for the guilt of promiscuity to assail me, but all I felt was sweet gratification. Drowsiness overtook me and I slept in his arms until he woke me with touches, kisses, and whispered words of love.

"Is it dawn already?" I burrowed closer to him, as if being near him could stop time.

"Not for another hour," he answered.

_Whatever will we do with a whole hour to spare?_

"Ugh," I groaned. "My armor is downstairs in my room."

"Not any more," he smiled. He pointed to it, neatly arranged on a chair, with my weapons and dragonskin gloves on the table beside it. Laid across my gloves was a perfect red rose.

"A hopeless romantic, are you?" I teased.

"Guilty on both counts. I'm hopelessly in love, and all my thoughts of you are romantic ones."

"All of them?"

"Almost all."

* * *

Teagan understood that Winter wasn't ready to accept his feelings for her, but she accepted him as a man. For now, that was more than he could have hoped for. He knew it was unwise and improper, but he didn't give a damn about propriety. He kicked off his boots and slipped into bed beside her.

Her silken skin was lightly scented. It was the fragrance of Andraste's grace, the rarest and most beautiful flower in Thedas. Teagan thought the contrast of the white gown, her dark hair, and her ivory skin made Winter seem ethereal. She was like a faerie, seductive and lithe and lovely.

But she was no mythical creature. She was real, and for these few hours, she was his. With her consent and enthusiastic participation, he loved her as fully as he was capable, pouring his emotions into every caress and kiss and stroke, giving and receiving unspeakable pleasure, until the morning's first sunrays bathed the horizon in a faint glow.

* * *

Morning came too quickly, as it always does when its presence is unwanted. Teagan was up and dressed before he roused me from a relaxed, dreamless slumber. He helped me with my armor—or more accurately, he hindered my progress, using the opportunity to reach beneath it and caress me through my undertunic.

"If you keep this up we'll never make it out of the castle," I remarked, handing him my spellward necklace, turning my back to him, and holding my hair up so he could fasten the clasp. After he'd secured it, he turned me to face him, touched my cheek tenderly, and uttered his goodbye.

"If I don't see you again," he said, "know that I loved you to my dying breath, and beyond death."

"Don't talk like that," I whispered. His words almost brought me to tears, they were so earnest. "Live, and find me after the battle. I want to see your face and know that you're alive. Promise me."

"My love, I cannot make such a promise…"

"_Promise_ me, and I'll promise you the same." I was adamant. "You're not leaving this room until you give me your oath."

He regarded me with anguished eyes, but his desire to please me was stronger than the uncertainty we faced. "I… promise… to do my best to stay alive, and find you after the battle."

"That will have to do," I admitted. I was asking a lot of him, and he wasn't a man to give his word lightly. I issued a flurry of last-minute instructions. "Don't take risks, don't fight alone, don't let the enemy separate you from your allies, don't get cornered, avoid the ogres no matter what you have to do to avoid them…"

"Anything else, Warden?" He was smiling at my commanding tone.

"Just this," I said, and pulled him close for one last kiss.

"Well, when you put it that way…"

A sharp rap on the door startled us. "Bann Teagan? The arl is asking for you, m'lord."

"Tell him I'll be right down."

Our bodies were like magnets, and it was with effort that we released each other. He walked to the door, brave and magnificent, turned to give me an encouraging smile, then he was gone.

Our intimacy awakened emotions with which I wasn't entirely familiar. Was this real love? Deep friendship mingled with physical attraction? I didn't know. But thoughts of love were not meant for this day. They would keep. If I lived, I would untangle them later.

I turned my focus to the battle ahead, and to things I understood well.

A few minutes had passed since Teagan left. It was time for me to go downstairs and join the others for the march to Denerim. I sheathed my weapons and checked my armor one last time, then walked to the door. Before I opened it I paused and looked back at the suite. My stomach fluttered with the memory of my hours with Teagan. Rapid flashes went through my mind in a second. His handsome face, his strong body, his braid coming loose again and again as he poised above me, to his annoyance and my amusement. As long as I lived—if I lived past this war—I would recall our night together fondly, without a shred of regret.

I wouldn't learn until later that Morrigan conceived Alistair's child that night.

Hers wasn't the only child conceived on the eve of battle.


	13. The Devil Went Down to Drakon

The Devil Went Down to Drakon

Part 1 – Out of the Frying Pan…

* * *

Eamon's army had set out just before daybreak, led by Ser Perth. Orzammar's troops had been rerouted and were headed for Denerim. The Dalish archers were closest to the capital city, as the Bracilian Forest was just a day's march south of it. They sent word to me that they would be waiting for us when we arrived.

Eamon provided horses for his officers and the wardens. It was impossible for us to reach Denerim ahead of the horde, but the sooner we got there, the better our chances of saving the city from total destruction. We'd already lost two towns to the enemy. Lothering was gone, its revered mother slain and hung on a post in a grisly display, and its buildings burned to ash.

Several times before we departed Redcliffe I felt Alistair's eyes on me but I didn't return his gaze. Whatever he had to say, if it wasn't directly related to the war, this wasn't the time to talk. If it _had_ been about the coming battle, he wouldn't have hesitated. I could only assume that whatever was on his mind had something to do with Morrigan.

The witch behaved as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She didn't shy away from me in shame, as she damn well should have done, nor did she initiate conversation. If she spoke, she expressed herself, as always, with disparaging remarks delivered with caustic superiority.

It occurred to me that I was quite the hypocrite. I didn't know how the evening went for Alistair and Morrigan and I didn't _want_ to know, but I had enjoyed my night with Teagan—and the word "enjoyed" was an understatement but I could think of no other to describe it. If I could have relived the night, the only thing I'd have done differently would have been to seek him out sooner so we could have had more time together. I wouldn't have wasted time and tears on false friends and lovers. The hours we'd spent in his chambers were so much more… exhilarating. Memories flooded my mind, making the long ride fade into insignificance.

"I assume you're angry with me about something." Alistair's voice shattered my daydream. "We can talk about it later. I'm worried about you, Winter. Are you unwell?"

"Why would you think that?" I asked. My tone was flat, neither angry nor reproachful, but my manner didn't invite chatting.

"You're pale and it looks as if you haven't slept for days, you've slowed your horse to a walk, and you appear to be… I don't know… under a hex or something," he explained.

"I'm fine." I spat out the words. "Preoccupied with the battle, as you should be, Your Majesty."

"Is _that_ what you're upset about? That I'm king? I'll remind you that it was Eamon's idea, and _your_ doing that put me on the throne. I never wanted it." His voice rose almost to a shout.

I could have flung the raw truth back in his face, but what would that have accomplished? Rather than correct him and touch off more argument, I shook my head in dismissal and spurred my horse to a trot, moving ahead and away from him.

Our march was done in cycles of four-and-one: four hours of marching, then one hour of rest. Meals were eaten on the move. There would be no overnight camp, no sleep, and no waiting for those who couldn't keep up. Already we wardens could sense the pull of the archdemon luring us to Denerim. The beast had penetrated our waking hours as well as our dreams.

"He is growing more powerful," Riordan remarked. "And bolder. He thinks we cannot win."

"He's wrong," I replied. The confidence I felt didn't come from any logical, well-planned strategy. I knew it in my gut. A warden would die in the process of killing the archdemon, or all of us if need be. That was unimportant. What mattered was that the author of the blight would meet his end in Denerim, and the country—all of Thedas, to be sure—would be saved.

We were making unnaturally good time, and at our current pace we expected to reach Denerim by dusk on the second day.

_Unnatural._ Everything about the blight defied nature. Why shouldn't we have this one small advantage of rapid travel? No matter who or what caused it—the Maker Himself or the enemy—it was a welcome boon.

When Denerim came into view, we saw the horde. It was larger than any of us imagined. Before we joined the battle, Alistair addressed the troops. He gave a short, rousing speech, using me as an example for the soldiers to emulate. A seasoned warrior and a decisive leader had replaced the old awkward, uncertain Alistair. It was about time. Not content to let the wound scab over, I wondered if his newfound manliness and confidence came from his tryst with Morrigan.

_Stop it, you fool! It's the archdemon provoking you. Focus!_

We were ready. The city gates were in sight, and surrounding her walls were more darkspawn than I could count. From our position, we heard the screams of civilians inside the city. Buildings were burning and the situation was grave. We left our horses about a mile from the city and walked the rest of the way. Prior to launching our assault, Riordan summoned me and Alistair.

On the way to meet with them, I passed Teagan. He grasped for my hand, halting me. "May the Maker go with you, beloved," he said. His voice carried a finality that pricked my heart.

"This is not goodbye," I replied. "I will speak to you after this is over. Remember your promise to me. Watch yourself, and you'd damned well better be alive when I get back."

That brought a small smile to his face. "Yes, Warden." He squeezed my hand and released me.

It was heartening to see that not only mages, but also templars had come to fight. Cullen, newly promoted to knight-commander, distrusted the mages so much that he refused to let them leave the tower without his supervision. He assigned one templar for each mage. I didn't care how it came about that we had the assistance of both templars and mages. Both were needed and all were gladly received.

A familiar whine caught my ear. Alduin jumped into my path, giving me his happy doggie grin. "Hey boy!" I said to him, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. His tail pounded the ground with excitement. "I hope you brought your master with you."

Aiden stepped out from behind a stone pillar. "Miss me?" he grinned.

"You have no idea," I answered, barely able to contain my joy at seeing him.

"Anything good happen while I was away?"

"Well let's see… Loghain and Anora were executed, Alistair is king, and Rendon Howe is dead."

His expression clouded. "Yeah, I heard Howe was dead. Please tell me it was your doing and that the bastard didn't die peacefully in his sleep."

"It was a group effort. You never mentioned what a conceited windbag he was, by the way. I would have killed him just to shut his mouth. But know that he died in humiliation and a _lot_ of pain. After all his posturing and big talk, he shat himself when he realized he was going to die. And the last thing he heard was the name Cousland."

"Good enough," he said. He clapped me on the back in appreciation. "I wish I could have been there to kill him myself, but you have my thanks."

"I rather enjoyed it, to be truthful."

His grin returned, tinged with malice. "Come on, little sister. Let's see what Riordan wants before _he_ soils himself too." I wondered how he knew Riordan, considering he was absent from our party when we found him. He explained that they'd just met minutes earlier.

Alistair was also glad to see Aiden had returned. That brought the count to four Grey Wardens. The odds improved for us, but were far from being in our favor.

"Choose who will accompany you," Riordan said to me. "I suggest you wardens stay together, with no more than one or two others. We must travel in small groups to avoid detection until we're upon the archdemon."

"You aren't coming with us?" I asked.

"No, I will go alone. I'm going to the top of the fort to try to engage the archdemon from there."

"That's suicide!" Alistair protested.

Riordan replied grimly, "Of course it is. You knew this. But I don't plan to die without taking the archdemon down with me." He turned to me. "Who will go with you?"

"Alistair, Aiden, and the mage Anders, with Knight-Commander Cullen," I said without hesitation. It was a perfectly balanced party: two rogues, two warriors, and a mage. And a mabari.

"So be it. Who will lead the troops at the gate?"

Whom to choose? Morrigan? Absolutely not. I wouldn't trust her to shovel Alduin's dung, much less lead my fighters. Wynne and Leliana weren't even a consideration. Oghren? A strong scrapper, but in this case, size really _did_ matter. Zev? Capable, but I wanted a warrior in charge. Shale? Immense and strong, but indifferent to the outcome.

_That only leaves… _

"Sten will lead them."

"Very well. Maker watch over you," Riordan said, and he set off for Fort Drakon.

Morrigan was incensed at not being part of the assault team. "After all we've been through together, you leave me behind? You will need my magic when you face the archdemon."

"Sorry, but if you want to meet your friend the archdemon face to face, you'll have to do it in the void," I said icily. I turned my back on her and walked off, ignoring her protests and insults.

Alistair wanted to tell me something before the battle. I was impatient to begin, but I let him have his say. "One of us may not come out of this alive. If it comes to that, I want you to live."

"Riordan will kill the archdemon, but if he doesn't, I'll handle it."

"Riordan won't be able to kill it," he insisted, as if he knew it for a fact. "As the next senior warden, the duty falls to me."

"Ferelden needs a king. You executed all other contenders for the throne, remember?"

I ended the conversation by starting for the gates with Anders running beside me, Cullen at his heels, and Aiden and Alduin close behind. Alistair caught up to us but there was no more time for talk. The air was befouled with the stench of thousands of darkspawn. I pulled my swords from their sheaths and began slashing.

Riordan had told us there were two darkspawn generals, alpha battlemages, that we should take down as quickly as possible. We found the first one in the marketplace and the second one in the alienage. Those were exceptionally difficult battles, but with the help of some Redcliffe soldiers in the marketplace and the elven archers in the alienage, we killed the generals and cleared both areas of darkspawn. I left a small detachment of soldiers in each sector to take care of any stray enemies, and we left for the palace and the fort beyond.

As we crossed the bridge leading from the alienage back into the city, an enormous dragon flew overhead, swooped down, and destroyed a portion of the bridge with a blast of fire.

"The archdemon," Alistair observed. "Bloody bastard is a dragon after all. I thought that was just how he appeared in my nightmares."

"He's heading for Fort Drakon," I said. "Let's see if we can help Riordan."

* * *

Part 2 – …and Into the Fire

Sten's team was assigned to hold the gates and prevent more darkspawn from entering the city. In his group were the chantry sister, the elf, the dwarf, the golem, the swamp witch, and the elderly mage. He didn't bother trying to remember their names. None were worthy of notice and none but the dwarf were soldiers, but they were all he had to work with, along with the inept human city guards and a handful of straggling Redcliffe troops who were too weak to keep up with their comrades.

There was no high ground save for the guard towers atop the city walls, which were too far from the action to be of use. Sten ordered the humans to gather debris and make crude ramps on either side of the gates so that his archers could have a clear shot without hitting their own men. It was the sloppiest battlefield he'd ever seen. He stationed the chantry sister and the elf on the ramps, and with each of them, he put one of the mages. Any other archers were sent to one ramp or the other, wherever there was room. The melee fighters took position on the ground.

A company of darkspawn stormed the gates, led by a huge alpha ogre. When the ogre came through the gates, the ranged fighters began raining spells and arrows on it while Sten, Shale, and Oghren hit it with physical attacks. The city guards kept out of its way, letting the wardens' team handle the ogre. Behind the beast, hurlocks and genlocks attempted to push through. The human soldiers and guards battled the lesser creatures. As soon as one wave was defeated, another moved in.

By Qunari standards, the whole battle was a disaster. Every one of Winter's companions received injuries. Zevran sustained a deep gash in his midsection from a hurlock's battleaxe. He was in pain and weakening from blood loss toward the end of the fight, but his wound didn't appear fatal. It was a near miss for him; another inch or so deeper and he might have been gutted. While tending to her lover, Leliana dropped her guard. An arrow slammed into her right shoulder and lodged in her joint. She was unable to fight on. The incident confirmed Sten's assertion that women weren't meant to be on the battlefield.

With their best archers incapacitated, Oghren was more vulnerable. A darkspawn battlemage burned his face with a blast of fire, blinding him in one eye. When he raised a hand to protect his face, another darkspawn nearly lopped off one of his arms below the elbow. Wynne stopped the bleeding and healed the open wound on his arm, then tended to his eye. She was able to close the flesh wounds and restore partial sight in the injured eye. It was the best she could do. There was no way to know if his eye could be saved. The two mages received bruises, but because of their wards that protected them to a degree, they suffered no serious injuries.

The cry went up from the wall overlooking the gate. By some unfathomable stroke of luck, they had won. Sten approached the messenger and told him to get word to the officers that the gates were secured. While he was giving the report, an alpha hurlock, believed dead but feigning it until he saw a chance to attack, rose from a pool of blood not his own, lifted his weapon, and struck Sten between the shoulder blades with his razor-edged battleaxe. The blow staggered the Qunari. He turned on his assailant and beheaded the beast with his greatsword, then fell to his knees. His fellows limped to him to try and help, but the blade had gone deep enough to nick his heart. He was dying, and this day there would be no miracle cures.

Sten was ready to die. It was an honorable death befitting a member of the antaam. The humans with whom he'd fought didn't understand the Qun, or that dying in battle was a desirable thing. They would never understand.

"Is there anything we can do to make you more comfortable?" the elder mage asked. Her tone of sympathy irked him, as if death was something to be feared and avoided, but he was past trying to reason with these humans.

"It is as it should be," he answered. "One thing I would ask of you. Give this to the warden, and tell her I counted her as the only human worthy to bear my sword, my Asala." He handed his greatsword to the dwarf, then he closed his eyes and embraced his death.

* * *

We battled our way through the palace courtyard. It was swarming with darkspawn. They'd arranged themselves in waves, as was their customary and most dangerous mode of attack. We had to kill a couple hundred of the creatures before we could move on to the courtyard outside the fort.

Riordan saw his opportunity when the archdemon flew near the top of the fort. He planned to leap onto the dragon's back and sever its spine with his sword, but when it flew near enough, the dragon caught him in its jaws. The beast crushed him until he was near death then it spat him in the air, leaving his prey to suffer excruciating pain in his dying moments. Riordan landed on the dragon's wing and his sword penetrated the leathery skin. The warden's weight drove it all the way through to the hilt. He was barely conscious, bleeding from deep lacerations all over his body, with broken ribs having perforated his lungs. He couldn't get a proper breath and hadn't the strength left to kill the archdemon.

The dragon banked sharply and shook its wing to dislodge its unwanted passenger. Riordan slid off, still clutching his sword and pulling it through the wing, splitting it in two. His pain ceased and he had a sensation of floating, then he died before he hit the ground. He hadn't killed the archdemon, but in his last act—accidental though it was—he'd forced the dragon to land on the roof of Fort Drakon. With one wing badly damaged, it couldn't fly. It was trapped.

I had elven archers fire on the darkspawn that lined the fort's courtyard. Aiden led them, using a powerfully enchanted new bow and poisoned arrows. Alduin ran to each felled beast and made sure they'd never get up again. Alistair, Anders, Cullen, and I went to the stairs to take out the battlemages. There were four of them, dangerous foes, but my spellward deflected much of their magic. When they were dead, shrieks poured out of the fort like ants from a ruined anthill. I kept moving so they wouldn't surround me, mindful of the injury they'd inflicted on Aiden in the Deep Roads. Anders cast repulsion wards around each of us that knocked them back, but he couldn't keep the wards up for long. Alistair and Cullen killed a good number of the screaming monsters. Aiden finished off the darkspawn in the courtyard and joined us on the steps, and with his help we made quick work of the remaining enemies. When the fort's courtyard was cleared, we entered the fort itself.

There were pockets of resistance inside the fort, but from their small numbers, I believed the archdemon hadn't expected any of us to make it this far. The hardest battle was the one just inside the doors leading to the roof. There were two ogres and a battlemage, all very powerful. I concentrated on the battlemage and let the others handle the ogres. It was almost a fatal mistake on my part. The ogres ignored everyone but me, and I was trapped between the two massive monsters and the battlemage. This darkspawn mage was using a life-draining spell against me, my spellward wasn't strong enough to counteract it, and my strength was ebbing rapidly. If he wasn't killed within the next few seconds, I wouldn't survive the fight.

Anders cast a stone fist spell at my attacker, knocking it off balance and onto its back. Alduin leapt on it and pinned it, and Cullen beheaded it with his greatsword. I was on one knee, gasping for breath, waiting for my strength to return. At this point I was completely vulnerable. My companions covered for my weakness, with Cullen defending me while the others killed the two ogres. All that was left was the roof. The archdemon.

When I recovered, we opened the doors and charged through. Darkspawn were everywhere. Shrieks in great numbers, genlocks and hurlocks armed with swords, axes, and war hammers, and in their midst, the dragon. He saw us come out onto the roof and he turned to do battle with us. We were the only threat he faced, and compared to his immense size and power, we looked like no threat whatsoever.

Templars and mages assisted in this battle. The templars were skilled warriors, experts with greatswords. The weapons were slow and heavy, but a single swing brought down as many as were caught in its arc. The mages used ice, lightning, and fire spells to help wipe out the weaker but more numerous genlocks. We three wardens, with Anders, concentrated on the dragon. When the archdemon began to weaken, it flew in a wobbling path to one of the battlements, out of reach of our melee weapons.

Aiden was the only archer with me, but it seemed he'd gained superhuman speed in firing off arrows. Hurlocks were being eliminated with rapid, deadly precision. One man couldn't have killed that many so quickly. I thought Leliana might have followed us to the rooftop, but when I turned to look for a way to reach the archdemon, I spotted Sebastian releasing a steady stream of arrows.

"Sebastian, get the shrieks!" I called to him. He turned his aim on them and shrieks began to fall by the score.

The top of the fort was equipped with two large ballistae. I ran to the one nearest the archdemon and began firing. I had to fight off shrieks and hurlocks between firing the bolts until Anders and Cullen joined me and kept the attackers away. The dragon received hit after hit, each doing a little damage. Disappointingly little, truth be told. Even wounded, the monster was stronger than the high dragon I'd killed in the Frostback Mountains. When it saw its position wasn't as safe as it had assumed, it moved back to the center of the roof.

"Get to the other ballista," Alistair shouted over the din.

"Forget the ballista," I shouted back. "I'm taking this lizard on right where he is." I ran to it, found its many injuries and began to hack at them with my swords. The beast roared in pain, kicked at me, knocked all of us down, and tried to fly again, but it had been too badly wounded. It stood its ground. So did I. Back on my feet, I ran to it again and attacked, flanking it, stabbing it over and over until my arms were aching. At last the dragon raised its head and let out a long roar of pain and outrage, then it collapsed, apparently dead.

The surviving templars cheered. I knew the fight wasn't quite over. The dragon pretended to be dead, thinking we would leave. He miscalculated my determination.

"Riordan said the archdemon could only die by a Grey Warden's hand," Alistair reminded me. "As king, I claim the right to kill it."

"Forget it, Alistair. You can't take the easy way out. I won't let you sacrifice yourself."

"You say that like I'm giving you a choice," he rejoined.

"And you say _that_ like I asked your permission." I dodged him and sprinted toward the dragon. When I got close, the beast raised its head—its fatal mistake. I cut a long swath in its neck, severing arteries and tendons. Its head dropped to the roof again. Blood poured from the neck wound. It was dying, but I sensed there was one last step to guarantee the beast was dead. I raised my sword and plunged it into the dragon's skull.

The entire fort shook when the dragon shuddered its last breath. A blinding light exploded from it and I was thrown backward, landing hard on the roof, sliding near the edge and coming very close to going _over_ that edge. White-hot pain enveloped me head to foot, then very gradually abated, from my extremities inward toward my middle, before dissipating entirely. I vaguely heard Alistair shout, "NO! Maker, no! You can't be dead!"

Sebastian stood over me. His image swam into focus. I blinked to clear my vision. "Winter! You're alive? Thank the Maker! When I heard you scream I thought you were dying."

I didn't remember screaming. I remembered a flash of light and some pain, but that was all.

"Winter!" Aiden cried, joining the chorus of worried warriors. He knelt beside me. "Are you injured? I don't see any blood, but you screamed as if you were being torn apart. Maker's blood, woman, I thought you were gone. Don't scare me like that!"

Another reference to a scream. Why couldn't I remember it? My throat was irritated, so maybe I _had_ screamed and was knocked to semi-consciousness.

"The archdemon…" I squeaked. My throat wasn't just irritated; it felt like I'd swallowed fire.

"Dead," Alistair confirmed. "You killed it, and you saved Ferelden. _And_ you're alive. You're alive!" He grasped one of my hands. "It worked after all. Morrigan was right."

"What worked?" Aiden asked. "Where's Morrigan?"

"Don't mention her name around me," I said. I extricated my hand from Alistair's grip.

"Where is she?" Aiden repeated. He stood and faced Alistair, who was avoiding his question.

"Right," Alistair said. "Let's get you to a healer. Where's that mage Anders?"

Aiden answered, "I saw the templar take him away just now. They might still be in the fort."

Morrigan's voice broke in. "You stole it! I don't know how you managed it, you wretched bitch, but you stole it!" None of us had an inkling of what she was going on about. I assumed I was the "wretched bitch" she was addressing.

"Morrigan?" Aiden said. He looked at her quizzically. For the first time, he saw her malignant rage. He finally understood what we'd tried to tell him all along— she was a real, genuine witch. Not a mage, not a spirited apostate, but a witch. She ignored him like he wasn't there.

"What did I steal, Morrigan?" I rasped.

"You know very well that I speak of the soul of the old god! You stole it, and I do not know how. Did you conspire with my mother to perform a ritual with which I am not familiar? You weren't prepared for the soul as I was. I suffered through the most loathsome night of my life to accomplish this, lying with a man who did nothing but flop on his back and stare about the room, drooling like a lunatic in a lyruim fog. And thanks to you, Winter, it was for naught because the soul isn't here. All I have is Alistair's brat in my womb, a plain human child, which I certainly don't want."

"_What_?" Aiden looked from her to Alistair. "What's this about your 'brat'? What have you done to her?"

Morrigan continued to rage at me. "There won't be another such soul for centuries! I know this ritual and I know it should have worked. You're the only woman with the taint who could have absorbed it, but how? Tell me, and you had better find a way to reverse it or so help me…"

"Don't you even think to threaten her, witch," Alistair warned. His tone was low and menacing. Morrigan had always thought him stupid because he hid behind silly humor, but she didn't know him as he was now. He was far from stupid, and in battle he was fearless and formidable.

"Or what?" Morrigan demanded. "What will you do, little man, or what do you _think_ you can do to me before I incinerate you like that." She snapped her fingers to indicate " in a split-second".

"I'll strike you down where you stand, like I should have done months ago," he snarled back.

"Somebody had better start explaining things." Aiden said.

Sebastian didn't know these people and wasn't privy to what was going on within my group. I was confused myself. He extended a hand to help me to my feet. I accepted it gratefully, but the furthest I could get was to a sitting position. It would be a few more minutes before I had the strength to stand. He supported me with an arm around my shoulders and waited with me.

"Were you waiting for me to leave so you could have her?" Aiden demanded of Alistair. "Now it makes sense. All along, when I was trying to get you and Winter together, you held back. It wasn't because of your chantry upbringing or shyness or any of the other lame excuses you gave me. It was because you wanted Morrigan!"

"I despised her, and I hate her more now than ever!" Alistair roared at him.

"But you shared her bed and now she's pregnant," Aiden countered. "That doesn't strike me as 'hate'. I considered you a friend, Alistair. But you barely contained your lust for her until I was out of sight. You're a fraud. A lying fraud."

Morrigan turned on him. "It's your own fault, Aiden. If you truly loved me as you claimed and you hadn't run off to Highever to babysit your no-account brother, this would be _your_ baby and I wouldn't have had to lower myself…"

"Shut it, swamp whore," Aiden snapped. "You have nothing to say that I care to hear."

Sebastian leaned to me and said quietly, "How did you get mixed up with this bunch? And to think you said the chantry people were peculiar…"

I smiled weakly at his comparison. "Do you think you can steady me while I try to stand?" I asked him. "I need to get away from this petty love triangle and find a place to rest."

"Gladly, my lady," he replied grandly. He sounded like the Sebastian I remembered from youth. He helped me to my feet, and Aiden left the argument to aid with supporting me while I slowly, painfully limped toward the doors. My whole body hurt. I must have been a walking mass of cracked bones, torn muscles, sprains, bruises, and all the other assorted gifts of a hard-won battle. Alistair followed behind us.

"You will not leave with my property!" Morrigan shouted. She was as crazy as her mother. I had no property of hers. We ignored her and continued our slow trek to the fort's interior.

Her mind snapped, or the evil she'd been hiding burst forth, or she was Flemeth in disguise… or all three. Morrigan charged at me with her staff extended, intending to kill me. She didn't get far. Alistair swung around and ran her through with his sword, hitting her low in the belly and pulling downward.

_He slept with her but hated their child? How could he know conception had occurred if they'd only been together that once, at Redcliffe Castle, just two nights past? Had he been with her before, even while Aiden was with us?_

Her staff fell from her hand. Blood gushed from her belly. Her yellow eyes rolled back into her head, revealing black where the whites should have been. Her mouth opened and she exhaled loudly. A large raven appeared _from her breath_, if you can imagine that, and it flew off. Her body vanished. Her clothing lay in a heap where she'd been standing. The blood she had shed was still there. Her staff burst into flames, and within seconds it was an unrecognizable, charred stick.

"Good riddance, witch," Alistair said, and I silently agreed.

"What in oblivion…" Aiden said. "All that time I thought I was making love to a human woman, but I was assaulting a blighted _bird_ with my…? Andraste's blood, I can't think about it now." He shuddered in revulsion. Behind him, Alistair did likewise.

Morrigan was dead, or we assumed as much. One never could be sure with witches. The wound she suffered from Alistair's sword would have killed her child and destroyed her ability to conceive again if she still lived, and if she were human. Such thoughts were too complex for now. And frankly, I didn't care what happened to her as long as I never laid eyes on her again.

"What was she talking about?" Aiden asked me. "What property did she think you had?"

I opened my mouth to reply that I didn't have an inkling and it was probably just her mad ravings, but before I could say anything, my vision blurred, my strength failed, and I lapsed into unconsciousness.


	14. Into the Nothing

Into the Nothing

Part 1 - "Stay with me, you're all I have left. I know we can make it out alive…"

* * *

Teagan and the bulk of the Redcliffe army fought inside the city. Perth had led the march, but once they arrived at the battle site Teagan was in charge of the troops. He divided the men into groups of thirty and set a knight over each regiment. His group was comprised of the last of the soldiers, twenty-six men including himself. He led his unit to an area near the palace walls and began to work at clearing the sector.

Every creature they killed seemed to be replaced by two more, or three more. The undead they had fought in Redcliffe were weak compared to these monsters, and less organized. Teagan tried to occupy his mind by keeping track of how many he'd killed, but he quickly found that he needed to keep his wits about him if he intended to live past the first hour of combat.

Weariness tugged at him. He hadn't slept in three days, and the short rests on the way to Denerim afforded little time to recover his energy. The monsters kept coming for them and he fought on and on. His arms ached from swinging his sword and deflecting blows with his shield. The weapons felt unusually heavy when his muscles went past the point of soreness and were becoming numb.

Hours into the battle, a bright light illuminated the sky like a lightning strike, followed by a loud explosion that shook the ground. His fatigued mind assumed it was the start of a thunderstorm. The darkspawn began to flee the battlefield, dropping their weapons and running in a frantic retreat. Fereldan soldiers pursued them and cut down as many as they could catch.

Teagan glanced about, dazed. What had happened? They weren't even close to victory but the enemy fled. He looked toward the fort where the light and the explosion had occurred. Black smoke billowed up from the fort's roof. He remembered that Winter and Alistair were on their way to the fort when he last saw them.

His heart went cold with dread. "Maker, please, don't let them be dead." He sheathed his sword and ran toward the fort. Dodging jubilant soldiers, stumbling over weapons, and weaving around dead bodies impeded his progress. He crossed the palace courtyard, which was strewn with dead darkspawn and an occasional Fereldan soldier. They had fared well in this area, judging by how few humans or dwarves he saw. He found the fort's courtyard and ran through it. The battle had been fiercer here. He continued, leaping over a pile of dead shrieks, and into the fort. All was quiet. It was an ominous silence.

He walked the interior of the fort, looking down each long hallway for signs of life. In a large room littered with darkspawn corpses he encountered Sandal, the dwarven merchant's son. "Sandal, have you seen Winter and Alistair today?"

The boy couldn't speak many words, but he understood what was being asked of him. He hopped about and clapped his hands.

"I'll take that as a yes," Teagan said. "Did they go upstairs?"

"Upstaaaiiiirrrrssss."

"Have they come back down?"

"Upstaaaiiiirrrrssss."

"I'll take that as a no," he guessed. They'd gone up but hadn't come back down. He had to find Winter. He'd promised her he would find her after the battle. Not only her, but Alistair, his king. More than ever, since Maric drove the Orlesians out of Ferelden, the country needed her king.

Darkspawn corpses marked the wardens' path through the fort. From the lack of blood trails, it was possible none of the party had been injured. That was his hope, but he knew…

_A fractured skull, a crushed ribcage, a broken neck, internal bleeding, punctured lungs… Any of these fatal injuries can occur without external blood loss_…

…that some of the most grievous wounds produced no outward signs.

He'd witnessed the appearance of a great dragon and saw it fall onto the fort's roof. He could have convinced himself that it landed elsewhere, mortally wounded, and limped away to die. But that didn't explain the bright light and explosion. What could have caused such a phenomenon if not the archdemon itself?

He ran up a flight of stairs, down a long hallway and past clusters of "walking dead" corpses like the ones that had attacked Redcliffe. His unfamiliarity with the layout of the fort caused him to lose his bearings. Each hallway looked alike. One dead genlock looked like any other.

At length he came to the corpses of a battlemage and two ogres. Beyond them were stairs leading to the roof and a set of double doors, thrown wide open. Silhouetted against the dawning sky were Aiden and another soldier, supporting Winter between them. She'd been injured. Aiden's hound followed on their heels, emitting a low whine. Alistair trudged behind them.

"Winter," Teagan whispered. He meant to call to her but his voice failed him. Before he could reach the trio, she sagged between her companions, lapsing into unconsciousness.

Winter was taken to Eamon's estate in Denerim. She was deeply unconscious or in a coma, no one was sure which or why. Nor did they know what to do for her. Until now, no one had killed an archdemon and lived. Her friends were worried that she, too, was dying. Slowly.

Two days later Anders, who had slipped away from Cullen during the commotion, was captured in Denerim at the docks. In another hour he would have been bound for Kirkwall in the Free Marches, but he didn't hide well enough to escape the guards' notice. Before they turned him over to the templars, they asked if he was a healer. He may have been bragging, but he claimed to be the best healer in Ferelden. They bound him and brought him to Eamon's estate.

"Who is in need of healing?" Anders asked. "Is it the king? It must be a pretty important person for you gentlemen to risk the chantry's wrath by bring me here instead of back to the tower."

"Your patient is the Hero of Ferelden," the captain of the king's guard explained. "She's fallen into a coma, from what the local healers can ascertain. But they can't do anything for her. As for the chantry and the templars, it's up to the king to deal with them."

_She?_ he thought. He remembered the girl that he and Cullen had accompanied through the most horrific battles, culminating in the fight against a high dragon on the roof of Fort Drakon. Even before they made it to the roof, she didn't look like she would last much longer. He'd presumed she was among those killed in the war.

He was led into a room, kept dark and cool and quiet, because her caretakers and friends didn't know what to do for her but let her rest, and pray she would awaken on her own. Anders could make out shapes of people on the far end of the room—her companions keeping watch over her. He asked the guards to clear the room of visitors and keep the servants out of the hallway until he was done. He needed a few minutes of deep concentration before he could begin.

When everyone had gone, he lit a candle and set it beside the bed, then he looked his patient over. It was her, the girl he'd followed through Denerim. She was almost unrecognizable to him. The last time he'd seen her she wore armor that was covered in blood and sweat, wielding two longswords with as much skill as any man, her countenance distorted by fierce determination and the exertion of battle. Here, clean and in repose, she looked like any other young woman. Prettier than most by far, and hardly the crazed warrior type.

Someone had taken great pains to cleanse her of the gore. Her hair had been soaked in it, but now it fanned out on her pillow, washed and brushed; its darkness contrasted against her fair skin and her white gown and linens, making her appear innocent and vulnerable. She looked to be no more than twenty or twenty-one years old.

"So young," he murmured, "and beautiful." He felt compassion for the girl. He was a calculating man, however. If he healed her, the king would be indebted to him. That could work to his advantage.

Anders was ready to begin. He passed his hands above the warden's body, scanning for injuries. She had none. No sprains, fractures, or internal bleeding. He wondered if she knew she was pregnant. It was in its earliest stages, so he thought it prudent to keep it to himself.

He detected something odd. Her blood contained an unusual element, something he hadn't encountered before. He prepared a blend of dried herbs and a drop of oil, and lit the mix with the candle, creating a medicinal incense. Then he performed the only spell he knew that might rouse her from her coma. Or it might kill her.

* * *

_Whoever said all spirits go to the Fade upon death was mistaken._

I'd been to the Fade, and it was noisy, colorful, and inhabited—not so much different from life, if one discounted all the ghostly spirits walking about. I didn't know where I was, but I was alone. There was no sound, but it wasn't the kind of deafening silence that weighs on one's ears until it hurt. It was just soundless. And colorless. And empty.

_Is this the void?_

That made sense. No one was able to describe the void, as no one had actually been there and returned to tell about it. All assumed it was a place of torment, where the wicked souls went after death—the ones that weren't allowed into the Golden City. Or Black City. It was still a mystery to me that the Maker supposedly couldn't protect his own city from corruption.

So I led an evil life, then? Good deeds and honorable intentions notwithstanding, were my overall decisions and actions so wicked that I earned eternal punishment? What good was there in the world, if that were so? Was I supposed to go about quoting the chant of light? Or had it been my denial of Andraste's godlike status that got me here?

_No, it's not the void either. Neither reward nor punishment, and no abominations to keep me company for eternity._

Things could have been worse, I supposed. I was in a place devoid of color, sound, and other beings, but there was a certain peacefulness about it. And no nightmares of the archdemon to disturb my rest—not that I required sleep if I were a disembodied soul. The monster's infernal whisperings came to a halt the instant I drove my sword through its brain. That act was the only thing I remembered about the war, and the scene replayed itself in my mind over and over.

_Oblivion. I'm in Oblivion, the place of forgotten souls._

At last things made a little sense. It was believed that the void was a place of punishment, but there was nothing tormenting about where I was. There was just… all this nothingness. I had some memories of my life, names and faces and events, but none caused me joy or distress. I felt nothing. For all my wondering, I didn't feel confused either. My mind and heart, like my blank surroundings, were empty.

I couldn't say how long I'd been there. It could have been minutes or centuries. There was no passage of time. It always came back to nothing. All thoughts led to nothing.

"Winter, awaken."

A sound penetrated the stillness. A voice. Male, and vaguely familiar. Curiosity led me to seek out the source of the voice, and when I attempted to find it, the nothingness dissolved.

* * *

I remembered this man. He was the mage Anders, who had fought with me in the battle for Denerim. He'd been there on the rooftop when we faced the archdemon.

"Welcome back," he smiled. "You've had a nice rest, from what I gather."

"I did," I replied. Instead of the usual minute or two of sluggishness that followed sleep, I was instantly alert. Here was the mage that Cullen personally guarded, but there were no templars about. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but what are you doing out of the tower?"

"Ah yes, you're the warden who cleared the tower of Uldred's blood mages and abominations," he said. "Thanks for that. But next time, could you wait until they've killed off all the templars? Especially if I'm away from the action on one of my frequent escape attempts."

That explained why I hadn't seen him before the war. He wasn't at the tower during that time.

He went on, "As for why I'm here, I slipped away from Cullen on the way back to our island prison. Came back to Denerim and was waiting for a ship to take me to Kirkwall, but the guards spotted me. Unlucky for me, but lucky for you that they did."

I tried to sit up. The room began to spin.

"No, no, no, you must lie still for a while longer," he clucked. "You've been unconscious for three days, Warden. Your body has to catch up to your racing thoughts."

"What? Three days? I've lost three whole days? It feels like minutes." Memories came flooding back in one big rush. "I recall everything that happened so clearly…"

He explained that I'd been under a spell of unknown origin, and it was one that the average mage wouldn't have been able to break. "Did I see Wynne among your companions? No wonder you were still unconscious. She's a below-average mage. She calls herself a healer and Irving dotes on her, but she's a useless old busybody. She can't heal a cut without leaving a scar. Some healer," he scoffed. "And she's a senior enchanter? I think the 'senior' part only refers to her advanced age."

His irreverent attitude toward his superiors made me chuckle. I didn't care about Wynne one way or another. She was allowed to tag along with us, but wasn't someone I considered a vital member of my team. And as he'd said, she wasn't able to heal a cut without leaving a scar. I still had one on my arm as proof of that.

He was a chatty fellow. "Now me, I'm not an average mage. My gift is healing. Your coma is something I've never seen before. Even with my skills, you were fortunate to awaken. You must be as strong inside are you are pretty on the outside."

"Is there a motive behind your flattery, ser mage?" I asked with feigned suspicion.

"Flattery? You wound me, Warden. I'm always sincere," Anders replied with a grin that belied his words.

A knock on the door halted our banter. "Enter," Anders and I answered in unison.

A templar came into the room, gave me a bow of acknowledgement, and addressed Anders. "Have you finished? The knight-commander wants you back in the tower immediately."

"Would it kill you to spare me one more minute?" Anders asked coldly. "Kindly send for the steward or the arl or whoever runs this place, and I'll be right with you." He turned back to me. "I need to speak with your caretaker, Warden. You won't lapse back into a coma, but you need to take it slowly for a while."

"Why should I take it slowly? Haven't I rested enough?"

He gave me his dazzling smile again. He was a good-looking man, with blonde hair and warm brown eyes. Behind his bravado and sarcasm was a kind heart. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? Lazing about for days when there's a country to rebuild." His manner sobered. "Truly, though, you do need to rest. By that I mean no fighting, no wars, no blights, and no more tangling with archdemons. Or any kind of demon, for that matter. At least for the next two weeks."

"_Two weeks_? I can't possibly sit still that long. Maker's blood, Anders, I haven't stopped for more than two _days_ at a time for the past year. I'd go stir-crazy."

He eyed me without sympathy. "Healer's orders. Rest. Two weeks."

"Please don't mention that to anyone," I pleaded. "If I'm well enough to travel, I can take it slowly until I'm completely recovered, but I don't want to convalesce with people hovering over me."

_Or be stuck here in Denerim so close to Alistair. He'll want to talk. I want to avoid that talk. _

"Well, isn't that ironic?" he observed. "A prison is a prison, whether it has bars or templars or doting companions, don't you agree?"

"I do," I admitted. "And I sympathize with you. I'm simply not in a position to help you."

"Maybe in the future, if you find yourself in need of a mage…"

"I swear to you, I will find you and kidnap you from the tower if need be." I was dead serious.

"I'm adept at escaping. It's staying escaped that I have trouble with. You can help me there."

"We have a bargain, then?" I extended my hand, and we shook on it.

We heard footsteps in the hallway. A stampede, from the sound of it. The door swung open and Alistair, Eamon, Teagan, Zevran , Aiden, and Leliana burst in. Wynne walked in last with her stately, queen-of-the-Circle shuffle. Alistair approached the bedside while the others remained at a respectful distance. He sat beside me.

"Thank the Maker," he breathed in relief. "I thought we'd lost you."

I repeated the line I'd given him after Flemeth saved us from the Tower of Ishal, with a slight twist. "It takes more than a few darkspawn and an archdemon to kill me."

"So I see. And glad I am for it. How are you feeling? Are you strong enough to rise?"

True to his word, Anders interjected, "Your Majesty, I've examined the warden and find her in perfect health. With another night's rest, she can resume her duties."

Alistair turned his attention to Anders. "So I have you to thank for saving the Hero of Ferelden? You have my heartfelt gratitude."

"You could show your gratitude by letting me live outside that wretched tower," Anders grinned. I knew he was serious, but Alistair took it as a jest.

"If things get too strict over there, you tell them you're a personal friend of the king. Although that won't do you much good. The chantry oversees the templars, as you're aware, and the chantry isn't fond of me. I just thought I'd officially start throwing my weight around."

Eamon asked, "Ser mage, are you certain that she is fully recovered? She appears pale…"

"You have my word," Anders lied. I liked him for his smoothness, and for honoring his promise to me. I would do everything in my power to keep my end of the bargain with him.

Teagan spoke up. "Maybe a few weeks of rest for the warden would be in order, Your Majesty. Before she assumes her post at Vigil's Keep, that is."

"Vigil's Keep?" I echoed, looking to Alistair for an explanation. "You want to send me into Howe's land? I'll have more trouble from his family and supporters than I ever had with darkspawn."

Alistair answered. "Amaranthine is now Grey Warden property. The Howe family has been stripped of their titles and wealth until it can be determined if they were involved in Howe's treason. If so, they will hang. If not…" He shrugged. "If not, I will leave it for you to deal with, Warden-Commander."

"Warden-Commander?" I repeated. "When did this happen?"

Alistair looked sheepish. "I… ah… I've been waiting for you to wake so I could ask you if you'd take over Vigil's Keep. As warden-commander, that is. If you don't want the post, just say so. I'll order you to go anyway. You're needed there." He finished with a smile, knowing I wouldn't pass up a chance to get back into the action. I'd been leading the fights all along already. The only difference now was that I had the title and authority to go with the responsibility.

"As long as the position comes with a sizeable pay raise, Your Majesty," I conceded. "What else did I miss while I was sleeping?"

"Nothing much," Alistair replied. "My coronation. Eamon's official appointment as my chancellor. Teagan was made arl of Redcliffe in addition to his duties as bann of Rainesfere. And then there was your promotion to warden-commander. And arlessa of Amaranthine. Other than that, it's been a slow week."

I congratulated the two Guerrin brothers on their new posts. Teagan tried to hold eye contact with me but I wasn't ready for a discussion about "that night." Alistair continued. "I'm sorry, but duty calls. As soon as I return from my tour of the country, I'll come by the Vigil, and we'll talk further." With that, he left, followed by Eamon and Teagan. The rest of my companions were waiting to visit with me. Anders cautioned them to stay only a minute or two. At the sound of his instructions, two templars entered to escort him back to the tower.

"Thank you, Anders," I said earnestly. "You saved my life."

"I'll tell Knight-Commander Cullen that. He might let me have an extra pudding at dinner," Anders quipped, but behind his smile was a touch of resentment.

"Give the knight-commander my regards and my thanks as well. If I have need of a healer, I know where to find you," I said meaningfully.

"Maybe," Anders winked. The templars weren't amused at his joke, and they led him out without ceremony.

* * *

Part 2 – Under New Management

The king, the chancellor, and his brother were waiting for the mage in the hallway, away from Winter's suite. The king spoke to him first.

"Tell me the truth, now that she can't hear you. I know that woman's stubbornness better than most, having served with her for the past year. How long does she really need to rest before she can assume her duties?"

Anders felt a twinge of guilt. He'd given his word, but her life could depend on what he answered. "I recommend two weeks of light duty, Your Majesty. She's alert and restless, but her body needs time to recover completely."

"Is there a chance she could fall back into a coma?" Eamon asked. He remembered that he, too, was alert when he wakened from his coma, but he suffered bouts of fatigue for some time.

"I don't believe there is," the mage replied. "Overexertion could be risky, though. At worst, she might put herself in harm's way, thinking she's at full strength, but…"

"…she could endanger her life and be unable to fight her way out of it," Teagan finished.

"That's my concern," Anders agreed. "She made me promise not to tell anyone of this, and now I feel like I've betrayed her…"

"Trust me, you haven't betrayed her," Alistair assured him. "You've done her, and all Ferelden, a service. She'll not hear of this conversation from any of us. I'll postpone her reassignment to the Keep for a fortnight."

"She'll be suspicious if you do," Eamon said.

"Have her come to Redcliffe," Teagan offered, not entirely without underlying motives.

"Tempting," Alistair mused, "but I can't think of a reason to send her there that wouldn't raise questions in her mind." He turned his attention to Anders. "You have my thanks again, Anders. You've probably just saved her life twice in one day."

The templars moved in to escort the mage away. Anders answered the king, "My pleasure. But just so Your Majesty is aware, mages aren't all evil sorcerers to be locked away for the safety of those without the gift. We're human beings, imprisoned without any rights, and it's unfair to us. Not to mention the fact that templars aren't the best overseers, and Cullen is a tyrant."

"You _do_ realize that I was a templar before I was a Grey Warden, right?" Alistair smiled.

Anders sighed. "No, I didn't realize it, but that's just how my luck runs." He surrendered, and the templars led him out.

"She could stay here," Eamon offered. "I'll be at the castle more than at my estate, so the house is at her disposal."

"She'll know something is up, and I'd hate to let on to her that the mage spilled her little secret manipulation," Alistair answered. "He seemed like a nice enough fellow."

A messenger approached. "Your Majesty, I have a message from Senechal Varel at Vigil's Keep."

Alistair took the note and read it. "Darkspawn have attacked the Keep," he said incredulously. "I thought this was over. Well, there's no way I'm sending her there right now. Eamon, dispatch a company of soldiers to the Keep immediately."

* * *

My companions fussed over me. All except Wynne, who stood by herself and didn't speak. That suited me. I wasn't in the mood for her digging into my private affairs or her unsolicited advice.

I felt fine. A little shaky when I first stood up, but that passed quickly. Then, after a few minutes of doing too much too soon, a wave of fatigue washed over me, and I was ready again for sleep. I asked my friends to allow me to rest, and promised we'd talk more in the morning.

Someone was missing, I noticed. Two of them. Oghren, with whom I'd never had much of a relationship, and Sten. Oghren's absence didn't surprise or bother me. Sten's did.

"Sten is gone? He went back to his people without saying goodbye?" _It's just like him_, I thought. He wasn't a sentimental man by any stretch of the imagination.

Zev approached me. His expression was one of sympathy. Not typical Zevlike behavior. "Winter, Sten died in battle. I am sorry. There was no easy way to tell you."

"He… died? No…" I hadn't realized how much I'd come to like the stoic giant. Hearing that he was dead grieved me deeply.

"He wanted you to have his sword," Zev continued. He repeated the words Sten had asked him to say to me.

"Anyone else? Anything else I should know?" My voice rose to a near-hysterical level. "Where's Oghren? Please tell me he's not dead too." They quickly reassured me that he was alive. He was recovering at Lake Calenhad, at the home of a surface dwarf whom they believed was his new love. _Good on him_, I thought. He was moving on, returning to a normal life.

I'd been brought up to date on all the news, good and bad. "Thank you. All of you. Now please, if you don't mind, I'd like to rest now." As much as I appreciated their concern, I wanted to be alone. I had a lot of information to absorb.

Wynne came forward. "Before I leave, I have something to say to you." Her tone wasn't as motherly-friendly as before. She sounded angry or disgusted. "I heard what you did to Andraste's ashes. I don't know how you could have destroyed our most precious relic, but you did, and you did it callously. The knowledge of it makes me ashamed to have served with you. I'll be taking my leave, and it is my sincere hope that you never recover from your injuries."

My companions were appalled at her last statement. The room went dead silent. Wynne and I locked eyes and glared at each other.

I could have taken her reprimand gracefully and let it go, but quiet acceptance was never my strong suit. "While we're bearing our souls, let me tell you, Wynne, that I never wanted you to come along with us. I allowed it _only_ because I felt I owed Irving a debt for his aid with the demonic boy at Redcliffe Castle. You didn't fit in with the rest of us, and Maker knows you are no warrior. Your skills are best suited to menial tasks like lighting kitchen cooking fires without kindling or landscaping the palace gardens. Go quickly, and do be careful on your way out. I fear your swelled head may cause you to lose your balance, and I for one wouldn't want the arl's staff having to pick up your decrepit corpse if you tumbled down the stairs and broke your neck, you stuffy old hag."

Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed with venomous hate. I shooed her out with a wave of my hand. My companions snickered as she made a show of walking out with dignity. Zev went to the door, opened it for her, and slammed it behind her a second too soon, hitting her on the rear as she exited. We heard the sound of her body hitting the floor when she pitched forward, face-first.

"Oh, I beg pardon," Zev called through the door. "Was that your arse?" That brought another round of laughter. _And all this time, I thought I was the only one who didn't like the old bat._ After our fun with Wynne, my companions filed out and left me alone to rest.

A minute or so later, there was a knock on my door. "Alright, which of you forgot something…"

The door opened and Teagan stepped in. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Not at all, " I answered. I was partly happy and partly apprehensive to see him alone. Happy because I was quite fond of him; apprehensive because I wasn't sure just _how_ fond I was, or what I might do or say. The last time I was alone with him…

_Maker's breath, such delicious passion_

…things had gotten out of hand. I hoped he didn't think less of me now that time had passed and the newness of the affair, or fling, or tryst…

_Be honest with yourself for a change; you love him_

…had cooled off. Nothing in his manner indicated anything of the sort. In truth, he was more tender, his approach more deliberate, his embrace strong and sure, his kiss of greeting intimate rather than cursory. It would have been easy to get caught up again, but I pulled back.

"You broke your promise," I said lightly. "You were supposed to find me after the battle. I meant _right_ after it. This is a little late, isn't it?"

"On the contrary, my love, I kept my promise," he corrected me. We sat on the edge of the bed. "Once it was over, I came straight to the fort to find you. You lost consciousness before I could reach you."

"A convenient excuse," I smiled. It was humbling to know he _had_ remembered his promise in spite of all that was going on, and that he'd kept it.

"I would use any excuse to see you again," he admitted. "You made it easy for me."

Our banter continued for a while, but I was slowly succumbing to sleepiness. My words came out garbled. I had difficulty coming up with responses to his jests, questions, and comments. With his typical intuitiveness, he realized I was fighting to stay alert. He moved onto the bed, sitting with his back against the wall, and had me lean against him. Maybe I should have protested his presumptuous act, but I was beyond caring if my personal life offended others. He accepted me and that was what mattered. There was nothing about his actions that so much as hinted at seduction. I lay with my back against his chest and he cradled me in his arms. To my recollection, I'd never felt as safe and content as I did when I drifted off. His voice accompanied me into slumber with soft tones of "I love you."

* * *

Teagan had suggested to Alistair, "Your Majesty, perhaps you will consider assigning her to make a survey of part of the country, avoiding the arling of Amaranthine, of course, and any other areas that might pose a threat to her safety. She could travel on horseback with two or three of her companions so that there would always be someone nearby to assist her."

"Excellent idea, Bann Teagan," Alistair agreed. "_Arl_ Teagan," he amended. "Eamon and I have to rush off and I don't have time to put it in writing. Could I impose upon you to draft an official order, use my seal on it, and have it delivered to her before you return to Redcliffe?"

"Gladly, Your Majesty," Teagan answered. Alistair clapped him on the shoulder in appreciation and headed down the hall with Eamon, his mind already on other matters.

Teagan drafted the orders, having her go first to Highever where her companion Aiden lived and his brother was teyrn. That would be a good stopping point after the ride from Denerim. Then on to small settlements toward the west, bypassing Orzammar (_She would undoubtedly want to explore the Deep Roads again_, he thought). She could proceed to Rainesfere, where she and her traveling companions would have full use of his manor and his staff for as long as they needed. He would be at his new post at Redcliffe Castle.

And lastly, he listed her final stop as Redcliffe. It was a slightly underhanded maneuver, but he couldn't go about his daily routine and pretend he wasn't preoccupied with thoughts of her.

Rather than pass the orders to a servant, he hand-delivered them. He hadn't had a chance to speak with her when he'd visited her earlier, and after hearing the mage's concerns for her health, he wanted to see for himself that she was recovering. Seeing her without weapons and armor, clad in a simple gown, reminded him of their night together. Kissing her was the most natural thing, as if they kissed every time they met. She returned his affection, but caught herself and withdrew shyly. He didn't intend to press her for more. Maker's blood, he hadn't even planned to kiss her until he saw her. Then, it was inevitable.

Perhaps he was taking advantage of her weakness by staying with her for so long, but he didn't want to leave her. She slept against him, in his arms, for hours, until he too had fallen asleep and awakened a few times. Before morning, and before she awoke to find him in her bed uninvited, he ought to go to his own suite. He gently lifted her and slid out from beneath her, laying her head on the pillows. She stirred and burrowed into the pillow, but didn't awaken. He pulled the bed linens up to her neck, placed kisses on her brow, cheek, and lips, then forced himself to do right by her, exiting her room and going to his own.

* * *

When I woke around dawn I felt more rested than I'd been in a year. Not surprising… I actually _was_ more rested, and I got to sleep in a bed for four nights in a row—one of the many things that hadn't happened since I became a Grey Warden.

Teagan and I had a lovely visit the previous evening. I hadn't seen him since we first arrived in Denerim for the battle, and it was a joy to know he'd come through it uninjured. At some point during our chat I must have fallen asleep—terrible hostess that I was—because I could only recall part of our conversation. His call wasn't entirely a personal one; he brought a message for me. It was from Alistair. Excuse me, that's _King_ Alistair. Very official-looking.

My reassignment had to be postponed for a few weeks because the Keep was undermanned and not prepared for the new commander. In the interim, he instructed me to tour a portion of the country, assess the damage done by the war, obtain a casualty count, and report back. The route he had outlined for me covered north-central and western Ferelden, then westward and south along the Imperial Highway, ending in Redcliffe.

_Isn't that exactly what he and Eamon are doing? _

No matter. He was king, and things had changed. Now _I_ had to follow _his_ orders. Part of the order was that I take along two traveling companions. Until it could be determined that the darkspawn threat was over and the surviving monsters had returned to the Deep Roads, none of his court or his officers were to travel alone.

I looked over the list of towns and bannorns I was to visit. The first was Highever. It would give me a chance to visit with Aiden. Better still, if Aiden hadn't yet left for his home, he could travel with me for a while.

I was disappointed that I couldn't go straight to Vigil's Keep, but things weren't as bad as they could have been. Anders could have told Alistair the truth, and I could have been put on bed rest for two dreary weeks.


	15. Postcards From the Edge

Postcards From the Edge

Part 1 – Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

* * *

My remaining companions were aware of my reassignment, but not how the king had postponed it. One by one, they came to my room to talk.

"I have a question, if I may," Zev began. We'd been down this path numerous times, and it always related to his future and his freedom.

"What's on your mind?"

"I swore an oath to you, and I have fulfilled it, have I not?"

"You have," I said. "Admirably."

"Then my question to you is this: If I wished to go, would you allow me to leave?"

"_Allow_ you to leave?" I repeated. "Zev, you've not only met the terms of our agreement, but you've gone far beyond what I expected of you. I would hate to see you go, but you are free to pursue whatever course suits you."

He looked relieved. Did he think I would try to hold him longer than we'd originally agreed? I asked as much. "No, I did not think you would go back on your word, my friend. I suppose I still feel a… connection, is it? Although you have been a leader worth following, I have no desire to go to Vigil's Peak. My time with the Grey Wardens is over. But I would not feel right to leave you without your consent."

"You have it. As I said, you're free to go where you like and do as you wish."

With an expression that I can only describe as determined, he answered, "I do not wish it, but there is some unfinished business in Antiva that requires my attention."

I understood what he meant. He wanted to settle the score with the Crows and show them he wouldn't run from them any longer. He would face them as he had faced and defeated his former handler Taliesin and his shady compatriot Ignacio. When I first met him, Zev was, as he put it, "cocky and arrogant" but without the skills to back up his boasting. He was a different man now. Instead of cockiness, he evinced self-confidence.

"You have my leave, Zev. May the Maker go with you."

He beamed his impish smile. "The Maker might have to turn His head for a some of this, but I thank you all the same. You have proven yourself to be a true friend. I will not forget you."

"Nor I you." It was a touchy topic, but I had to ask. "What about Leliana? You two have been involved for months. Is she going with you?"

"I… cannot be burdened with a relationship. We have talked at length, and while she does not agree with me, I think she has accepted that it is time for us to part ways."

"I see." I felt sorry for Leliana. She had pinned all her hopes on Zevran, and in spite of his oft-repeated cautions to her that their romance was temporary, she'd fallen in love with him, and I supposed she thought she would change his mind.

"So this is it? You're really going to leave me?" Leliana came into the room, having overheard our conversation. I suspected she had been listening outside the door for a while, but I couldn't fault her for it. She genuinely loved Zev. Every one of us, at some point, had experienced heartache. Leliana was a sensitive person, and because of some unwise decisions, she had suffered more than her share of emotional pain over the years.

"I will not have this discussion with you again," Zev said, not unkindly. He was aware of her feelings for him and he regretted that she'd allowed herself to fall victim to an elusive emotion—one he still didn't understand—despite his warnings. "I must go, and I must go alone."

"You don't have to do this alone," she disagreed. "We're the same, you and I. I can help you."

"No."

"That's all you have to say? 'No'? Won't you hear me out?" Her voice was quavering.

"I have heard you before, and you know my answer. I will do what needs to be done, and I will do it on my own. Do you not have something to take care of in Orlais?" He referred to Marjolaine. His tone softened and he lifted her chin. "Go, Leliana, and regain your freedom. Clear your name. You will find the satisfaction you derive from it more valuable than this love you profess." He kissed her on the cheek, then approached me and did likewise. "Farewell, Grey Warden."

Leliana stared after him disbelievingly. "He's gone," she said in a near-whisper. She wasn't talking to me, but to herself. "Zev…"

"I'm so sorry," I said to her.

She turned to me, and her sorrow was tainted with anger. "What would you know of pain and heartbreak? You strut about while all the men fall at your feet, but none of them are good enough for you, are they? Alistair, Aiden, and even Zevran cared for you, did you know that? Did you know that Zevran constantly compared me to you, and I always came up short in his eyes?"

She was exaggerating. Aiden and Morrigan had been practically inseparable. "Leliana, you know there was never anything between Zev and me. We were friends and that was all."

"You would have me believe that, wouldn't you?" Her tone was turning vindictive. "You treated me like I was stupid and childish and hardly worthy of your time."

_Stupid? No, gullible is a better word for it. Childish? Well, isn't your behavior proving that you _are_ childish?_ Sympathy aside, she was starting to wear on my patience. "I think it best we end this discussion before it gets worse. I don't want to say things I'll regret later."

"No need for that," she snapped. "I heard what Wynne said about Andraste's ashes and how you destroyed them. You lied to me when you said you'd found them."

"How was it a lie? How could I have destroyed them if I hadn't found them first? You're not making sense."

"Oh I'm making sense, but you deny it because you can't admit to having flaws. You're a prideful woman, and that will be your downfall. Too bad I won't be around to watch your humiliation. I'm leaving, and I pray our paths never cross again." She stomped out of the room dramatically and slammed the door to punctuate her indignation.

_Maker's blood, it's too early in the day for this nonsense. Two more companions gone. Only Aiden is left, and I assume he'll be going home to Highever._

As if on cue, there was a knock at my door. "Enter," I called wearily.

_Let's get this over with._

As I thought, it was Aiden. His demeanor was friendly, even jocular. "I see the lovebirds have flown the nest," he said. "And in separate directions. That's good. Imagine if those two had been allowed to breed." He'd never been fond of Leliana, and didn't hold a high opinion of Zev either. "Good riddance to them both, I say."

"And what are your plans? You're the last one. Come to say goodbye?"

"Why would I do that?" He asked, his blue-gray eyes widening in surprise. "I'm still a Grey Warden, aren't I? And you _do_ plan on taking me with you to Vigil's Keep, right?"

His words came as a relief. I couldn't help myself; I flung my arms around his neck and said, "Thank the Maker for you."

He chuckled and returned my impulsive embrace, sharing one of our brother-sister moments. "Well, I don't hear _that_ often enough. Feel free to repeat it anytime."

I told him the reassignment had been postponed and informed him of my current mission. He was eager to get started. "This is a nice house," he said, "but I was getting bored with all the sitting around and waiting. If you must go into another coma, do you think you could be considerate enough to limit it to one day at most?"

"It will be good to have you along, you spiteful oaf," I joked back. "I've got a few things to take care of, then I'll be down for breakfast. Meet you there shortly?"

"Better hurry if you want food. I woke up famished." He grinned at me and walked out.

My pack had been located somehow, in the havoc that was Denerim, and brought to my room. It was a mess inside. Broken flasks had leaked their contents on everything. My papers and books were ruined and my spare undertunic stained. I picked through the items, salvaging what I could and discarding the rest. Then I checked my weapons. I expected to find them coated with dried blood, but someone had cleaned and polished my swords. My armor was clean too, and I was glad I'd traded in the porous leather armor for the sturdier, waterproof dragonskin. Wade had worked a miracle with the fit. I donned it, strapped on my swords, and prepared to leave.

Another visitor dropped by. "I couldn't leave for Redcliffe without seeing you," Teagan said. "Are you quite sure you're well enough to travel?"

"I'm fine," I answered. In truth, I wasn't feeling too energetic, but I wasn't going to say anything about it. I remembered Anders' recommendation, but like Aiden, I was bored and ready for a change of scenery.

"I do wish you would reconsider this assignment and come to Redcliffe with me."

"I can't just ignore the king's orders, even if he was under _my_ command for fourteen months," I laughed. "He's in charge now, remember."

"He would understand. Trust me."

His concern was heartwarming. No, it was more than that. I was _happy_ that he cared so much for my well-being. "Thank you, Teagan. I will be seeing you soon, you know. Redcliffe is the last stop on my little fool's errand tour of western Ferelden. I'll be ready for a nice break by then."

He moved close to embrace me. I didn't protest. I enjoyed the feeling of his arms around me. My heart pounded out a rapid cadence. Without waiting for him to initiate the kiss that I knew was coming, I raised my face to his. "A kiss for luck, then?" He complied instantly. Not a single kiss, either. We kissed passionately, until I had to stop it before it went too far. Undeniably, I was attracted to him in a way that no other man drew me.

_Is this real love? And is that why I couldn't make love with Alistair—because I already had feelings for Teagan? Is it why I feel no guilt for sleeping with him, and why I miss him when we're apart for too long?_

"Come soon," he whispered against my hair. "I'll be waiting for you. And worrying."

"Don't worry for me. I'll have Aiden with me, and his hound, and I have plans to pick up another recruit or two along the way."

"That gladdens me to hear it." He kissed me once more. "I must go now, my love. I'll give you one last chance to change your mind…" He said it with a smile, knowing my answer.

"I'll see you in a couple of weeks, or a month at most, depending on what I find out there." I replied. "That's a promise. And you know I keep my promises."

* * *

Eamon left instructions that I, and any of my traveling companions, be given horses for our trip. It wasn't a loan, but a gift. We could take our pick from any horses in the palace stables. I chose a sturdy chestnut stallion with a blonde mane and tail. Aiden selected a larger one, solid black and lean, bred for speed.

"Are you planning to race me to Highever?" I asked archly.

"I wasn't until you brought it up."

"I wonder if we should get one more," I said, thinking aloud. "We'll be needing it soon."

"Oh?" He eyed me curiously. "I take it someone will be joining us. Care to share who it is?"

"In good time," I answered, letting his curiosity nag at him a while. I'd learned that he was a highly inquisitive man, and unanswered questions and mysteries drove him nuts. Like my shrouded past, for example. Alistair once told me that Aiden kept after him all the time to find out why I left Starkhaven and came to Ferelden. What kind of life did I have before I came here? Why was I so moody? Why didn't I succumb to my male companions' good looks and charms?

"Your Ladyship, if you please!" a servant called to me. I wondered how it became known that I was from a noble family. I hadn't told anyone but Alistair. "Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven has asked to see the Marquess Winter MacEwan. He's in the study."

_Why in oblivion is that fool throwing titles around? Being called Hero of Ferelden is burden enough; my Starkhaven title is meaningless._

"Tell him I'll be right in," I sighed. At this rate we wouldn't get on the road until noon.

"Marquess, huh? If you and Alistair had listened to me instead of being all shy and stupid, you could be queen by now." Aiden never missed a chance to snoop into others' lives, but his charm allowed him to get away with it. "Well, Your Ladyship, I'll wait for you here," Aiden said. "If you like, I can select another horse for our mystery companion."

"No, not yet," I answered absently, walking back to the house.

Sebastian greeted me like an old friend, Starkhaven style, with an embrace and a kiss on each cheek. "I'm glad I caught you before you left."

"I didn't expect that you would still be in Ferelden, but this isn't exactly the first time you've surprised me with visits," I smiled. "One of which was perfectly timed."

"Glad to be of help, and to be part of something more exciting than listening to landowners' gripes," he replied. "You're a hard lady to reach. The first time, as I recall, your boyfriend knocked me out." He rubbed an imaginary injury on his jaw.

"You had that coming," I scolded, and he agreed. "Now please tell me how you managed to end up still in Ferelden when you were supposedly put aboard a ship that same day."

"Oh, they put me aboard a ship alright," he said. "But the only ship in port, and the last to leave before the war started, was a pirate ship. I almost didn't get away from them."

"Pirates?" I laughed. I thought he was joking. He wasn't.

"Indeed. The captain was a woman. Not a very nice woman at that. Do you know what she asked as payment for my passage to Kirkwall?" I shrugged, and he went on, "She demanded that I…" He cleared his throat, flushed scarlet, and finished, …well, that I… _service_ her. In her cabin."

"What did you do?" I asked, barely able to hold back laughter. Sebastian had gone from wild to prudish a few short chantry lessons. "Did you pay your passage? And if so, have you been to a healer since then? I'd heartily recommend it."

"No! Maker, I would sooner drown than be alone in a room with that…person," he said. "I told her no deal and I jumped ship. Better to take my chances with the darkspawn."

"Was the captain's name Isabela, by any chance?"

"You _know_ her? Sweet Andraste, Winter, how did you get involved with such an unruly lot?"

"I know _of_ her. I never met her and didn't care to make her acquaintance. Anyone who had the means to help but ran like a coward wasn't worth my time."

We sat and talked for the better part of an hour. He still wanted me to return to Starkhaven, and again he mentioned marriage—the non-chaste version. I laid out the reasons why a marriage between us wouldn't work. Not counting the fact that I didn't love him any more (and I was sure his feelings for me had changed as well), our religious difference was the chief obstacle. I would never change my mind about Andraste's role, and he wouldn't change his. Then there was the problem of his vows, and his guilt over abandoning them. Would he ask Andraste's forgiveness every time he made love? What woman would put up with such an insult? He belonged in the chantry, and nothing would convince me that he wouldn't return to it after he got some justice for his family's murder.

"I have to admit you're not the woman I knew before," he said. "Not that you haven't done things that few men could have accomplished, but…" He trailed off and left his thought unfinished.

"This bothers you, does it?" Too bad if it did. He had chosen his path and I'd chosen mine. I didn't hold his choices against him or berate him for being double-minded, wavering between his dedication to the chantry and his duty to carry on the Vael line.

"No! I didn't mean to imply that. You truly are a hero, Winter. You didn't hesitate to take on a dragon—a _dragon_, for Andraste's sake! What I mean is that you would have made your father proud. It's more than I can say for myself."

"Three dragons, actually. You weren't here for the first two."

"Maker…"

I rose from my chair, signaling the conversation had run its course and I needed to be on my way. "Speaking of the Maker, it's time I get on with my duties and you get back to your chantry or your court or… whatever you plan to do."

"Have you lost your faith in the Maker altogether?" he asked sadly. "You use His name blithely."

_He's preaching at me? Again? He can call himself 'prince' but he's still a chantry brother._

"I haven't lost my faith. I think some of the lore that's been passed down through the generations has been changed, and some of the truth lost. I find it hard to believe that a loving Maker would give up and abandon his creation." I noted his look of disapproval and dropped the matter. "I'm glad you didn't go before I had the chance to thank you for helping in the battle. Your assistance and your skills were sorely needed, and as I've said, your timing was perfect. And thank you for staying with me afterwards. I probably owe you my life several times over."

"Not at all," he smiled (my sins from the past minutes forgiven). "I hope you'll rethink your plans and return to Starkhaven. Your home is there, as is your birthright. I've no doubt King Alistair has a large enough court to see to his country's needs. Your duty to the people of Starkhaven should take priority over your duties here in Ferelden."

_Is he kidding? I'm not touching that one. Old history, water under the bridge, etc._

We said our goodbyes on a cordial note with empty promises to stay in touch, then I put the meeting out of my mind and went back to the stables. Aiden wasn't as put off as I thought he would have been. I'd left him out there waiting for a long while, but he amused himself by riding every single horse in the royal stables, making a show of surveying the city, with Alduin trotting alongside him.

"How about we take a couple more?" he suggested. "You know, a mare and a spare?"

"Let's not leave the king's stables empty," I answered, ignoring his lame joke. "We have enough for now."

* * *

Part 2 - Revelations

Aiden noticed the company of soldiers heading toward Amaranthine. They were heavily armed and armored as if marching to battle. From their pace and demeanor, he knew something was up, but he didn't point it out to Winter. It was surprising she didn't notice it herself, but then she seemed to be wrapped up in a daydream. He had a feeling he knew why, and about whom. He'd planned to ask to her about the whole marquess thing, but this was a juicier topic for the present.

"What's the story with you and that old guy?" he asked.

She looked round at him and blinked. "What? Who? What 'old guy' are you talking about?"

"Don't play coy with me," he razzed her. "That bann or arl, whatever he is. That Teagan fellow."

"Oh," she answered, having difficulty keeping the smile from her face. The corners of her mouth twitched. Aiden was an observant fellow. He knew by her expression that he'd hit paydirt.

"I see how it is," he grinned. "That explains a lot, you know. I tried to get you and Alistair together for months, but you weren't having it. Now I see why. You have a thing for older men."

"That's not true!" she protested. "I was always fond of Alistair."

"There's fondness, then there's _real_ fondness. Something's going on with you and Teagan."

She slowed her horse and turned on him. "Did I ever ask you to tell me about your affair with Morrigan? No, I didn't. Because it was a personal matter between the two of you. You would do well to show others the same courtesy."

At the mention of Morrigan's name, Aiden's curiosity was subdued. He had tried not to think of her but the memories came back. First the good memories. He remembered how he had to work to get her to like him, but he thought it a worthy pursuit. She was passionate, imaginative, intelligent (which was a pleasant surprise, considering she had spent her entire life in a rundown hut in the swamp with nobody but her mother to educate her), and without question the most beautiful, sexy woman he'd ever known. She'd told him she loved him, and her actions convinced him it was so.

Still, she didn't waste time filling her bed with someone else when he had to leave for a while. He was only gone a couple of weeks, but she refused to wait for him. Her betrayal was bad enough, but turning to the one man he trusted most—Alistair, the virgin bastard prince—was an added twist of the knife. Why did it have to be him? Morrigan was knowledgeable in the art of physical love. Alistair was inexperienced, blushing and stammering every time the subject of sex came up in conversation. He probably didn't have the imagination to have given her the kind of pleasures she sought. _Zevran was willing to have a go with anyone, including me_, he thought with a grimace of disgust. _Why didn't she choose him if she needed to be 'serviced' so badly?_ Her flirtation with Sten had been entertaining for a while, the source of many a good joke, but in the end, she managed to provoke even the indifferent Qunari to lust.

_Why was I so stupid? She was a temptress, a tease, and when all was revealed, a tramp._

His companions had been right about her all along, but he was too blinded by love and desire to see the truth. Morrigan was a witch of the same caliber as Flemeth. Whether or not she were really human or a demonic being wearing an alluring suit of human flesh, she had powers beyond anything a normal mage possessed. He had been present when Winter fought Flemeth for the grimoire, and saw for himself when the witch turned into a high dragon. How much different was Morrigan from her mother? He saw when Alistair ran her through with his sword, and how her body vanished. He saw the raven that formed from her last breath. Nothing about her was as it seemed. Even the love she'd claimed to have for him was an illusion.

"I'm sorry. That was unnecessarily harsh," Winter said, misjudging the cause of his silence.

"No, you were right."

She stopped her horse. They were in a clearing by the Hafter River, southwest of Amaranthine.

"Let's make camp here for the night." They hadn't traveled as far as she would have liked, but she was weary and needed to rest. Not only that, though; she thought Aiden might want to talk. His manner had changed, and there was more to it than her mild reprimand could have caused. He was troubled.

They set up two tents in silence, each in their own thoughts. He, stewing over Morrigan's betrayal and Alistair's deception. She, wondering why the king had sent soldiers to Amaranthine while sending her on this pointless survey mission.

When they'd passed the troops, she was planning ahead to her stop at Redcliffe. There were many miles, several towns, and a few weeks between now and then, but she looked forward to seeing Teagan again. Or "that old man," as Aiden put it. The recollection amused her. Teagan might have been forty or forty-one years old, but there was nothing old about him. Thinking of him distracted her once more from the soldiers and their purposeful march.

Aiden had finished with his tent, made a fire, and started dinner. Their provisions were sparse, as they'd planned to hunt for wild game, going on the assumption that the towns and villages along their route were suffering from a lack of food and shelter and could offer them nothing. The horde had left its mark everywhere they went. Aiden didn't bother to try to hunt game. He was still brooding, which was out of character for Winter's buoyant friend.

They sat on the ground, eating a flavorless stew, when Winter initiated conversation. "Do you want to talk about what's bothering you?"

"Not really," he replied.

_Another first for him, and not a good sign_, she thought.

"Okay then, I'll start, if you care to listen." He shrugged, and she told him about her background in Starkhaven, her betrothal to Sebastian, her parents' murder, and all the events that led up to her being exiled from her country. While she told her story, he moved from politely attentive to fully engrossed. All the questions about her past that had piqued his curiosity were answered.

"I wouldn't have guessed," he said when she'd finished. "Of all the theories I'd pondered, none came close to the truth. I'm sorry for what you went through, and sorry that you had to go it alone. We shared similar tragedies. I wish I'd been a better friend."

She answered, "Fool that I was, it was my decision to keep everyone at a distance. I was angry and bitter, and I hardened my heart. I thought that was how I had to be to keep from being used and hurt. But it was all a façade. Inside, I was lonely and miserable." She surprised herself with the last admission; she was making herself vulnerable again. She continued, "I overheard you and Alistair talking about your family, and I've felt a bond of empathy with you since then, even if I didn't express it. We'd both lost everything, and by an ironic turn of events, we survived it and ended up as Grey Wardens."

"Possibly not my best judgment call," he sighed, "but it seemed I could do more good as a warden than as a teyrn."

"Do you regret becoming a warden now that Fergus has returned?"

He thought on it, then answered, "Truthfully? No. I think being a warden was my fate, you know? It's like I was born for this purpose, to this destiny. Does that sound crazy?"

Winter gave a snort of amusement. "If so, we're equally crazy."

* * *

We reached Highever the following afternoon. The land didn't show many signs of damage; if anything, it was the most intact area we'd seen thus far. People went about their lives as if the country hadn't been on the edge of annihilation just six days earlier.

Cousland Castle was built on a coastal hill overlooking the Waking Sea to its north, and the city of Highever to its south. It was as much a fortress as Redcliffe Castle, but larger, surrounded by high, thick stone walls that were once patrolled by the Cousland's many guards. Today, its walls were empty, giving silent witness to the slaughter that had occurred here before the blight.

Fergus greeted us when we entered the main doors. "You're the Hero of Ferelden, I take it? I thought you'd be taller. Older. And a lot more male." He was a friendly man, as playful as Aiden, but the atmosphere dampened everyone's spirits. After a short chat, he returned to a room near the entrance. He walked with a noticeable limp, and Aiden confided that he would probably not recover from it completely.

_I should bring Anders here. He could heal him better than any Chaisnd barbarians could._

"I'll show you around if you like, but we won't be going to the family quarters upstairs. There are guest rooms in the front of the castle," he said. "That's where Fergus and I have been staying until the rest of the castle is repaired. I'll double up with him and you can have the spare room."

Inside the castle, the odors of burned wood and cleaning solutions permeated the air. A work crew was hauling out all the damaged and ruined furniture, and household servants were on hands and knees scrubbing at the ominous dark stains that marred the stone floors.

"That blighted bastard Howe wanted the place left just as it was after he killed my family," Aiden snarled. "He had the bodies dragged out and left on the castle grounds, but wouldn't suffer anyone to clean up the blood that marked where my parents died. Those were his trophies."

We entered the main hall. Judging by the damage, it was the site of a terrible battle. "Ser Gilmore died here, trying to prevent Howe's men from coming in," he said, pointing to a large stain near the door. "He was Father's senior knight, and it was he that Duncan had come to recruit when Howe's men attacked."

"Duncan was _here_ when your parents were killed?" I asked. I'd never heard the details of Aiden's recruitment. He related the story to me as we toured the rest of the rooms. If not for Duncan, Aiden would have died trying to protect his parents. His sister Alyssa was killed first. He tried to get to her room to help her, but Howe's men had already entered the family quarters and murdered her in her sleep.

_Thank the Maker! Now I know for sure that Howe lied about abusing the poor girl._

"I'm deeply sorry," I said, knowing the words were inadequate but not knowing what else to say.

"It was a merciful end for her. The only mercy anyone showed that night," he continued. "Maybe one of Howe's men was less of a beast than the rest. Alyssa was stabbed through the heart and she died instantly. She was spared the horror the rest of us saw."

"I've seen enough," I said after he showed me the larder where his parents died. It was a sharp reminder of my own parents' deaths, and I didn't want Aiden having to relive the memories of losing his family. The Maker had been kinder to me; I was away from home when the intruders killed my parents. Aiden was in the thick of it, seeing and hearing everything.

The three of us shared a modest dinner. No one was very hungry and all of us were fatigued. The two men, I imagined, were more emotionally drained than physically tired. Fergus retired first, leaving Aiden and me alone to talk more.

"Tell me about Morrigan," I started bluntly. "Did she ever give you any indication that she had a personal agenda, and she wasn't just there to help out with her magic, as Felmeth told us?"

"Not a word," he answered. "I was as taken in by her… No, that's a gross understatement. She was the consummate seductress and deceiver. If she hadn't sucked me in with her looks and her scanty clothing, she would have found other ways. She was so beautiful…" He trailed off wistfully.

"And now? How do you feel about her?" I pressed.

"What does it matter? She's dead. I can't say I mourn for her, nor can I say it will be easy to forget her."

I wasn't convinced she was dead. We all saw that raven, and he'd seen Flemeth as a dragon. With the tales of the immortal swamp witch so prevalent around Thedas, I didn't fully believe Flemeth was dead either. "What happened between you two? By that I mean, why did she turn against you when you left to see about Fergus?"

"I can't fathom why she got so angry about it. True, she and Flemeth didn't exactly share your average mother-daughter closeness, but for her to have no compassion whatsoever, and not to be happy for my sake that one member of my family survived… She was adamant that I stay and let friends or strangers care for Fergus. As if, after receiving the best news I'd heard since I survived the joining, I would nonchalantly go about my way…"

"She didn't understand relationships," I supplied. "She told me as much during one of our talks. She knew enough of male-female relationships to manipulate them as it suited her. But family ties and friendships were foreign to her."

"Yes. I have to wonder if she'd been manipulating Alistair all along," he said. His tone was bitter.

"I've wondered that myself, but I don't believe it's the case." The revelation had just come to me as we were talking. "You were the one she wanted all along. When you left, it disrupted her newly-realized sense of companionship or…" A thought occurred that hadn't seemed to fit before. "Or her plan to get pregnant, for whatever purpose, was thwarted. She had to have a replacement, and she went for the most gullible man in our party."

"That makes no sense," he answered. "I had broached the subject of marriage with her but she shut me down cold. She told me flat out that after the blight was put down, she would leave and I'd never see her again. I couldn't accept it because I was convinced she loved me and would change her mind. Besides, why would she want to leave _pregnant_?"

"I don't know," I admitted.

"Let me ask you something, since we're intent on self-flagellation. You and Alistair were close, weren't you?" I told him I thought we were, and he went on, "So how long do you think _he_ went about lying to us, pretending he didn't have designs on Morrigan?"

Maybe it wasn't the wisest idea, but I told him about what I'd overheard outside Alistair's door at Redcliffe Castle the night before we left for the final battle. It was my opinion (now, not back then) that it was the first and only time they slept together.

"From what you say, it was Morrigan who initiated it," he commented thoughtfully. "Not that it comes as a great shock, recalling how venomous she was when I left. If that's the case, and if it's true that pregnancy was her ultimate goal, Alistair was the only man in our party—human man, that is—who could have impregnated her. My question then would be how could she have known for a certainty that conception would occur?"

The answer hit us and we said in unison, "Blood magic." He added, "Son of a bitch." I concurred.

"Have you and Alistair talked it over?" he wanted to know.

"No. I don't want to know why he slept with her. I don't care. It's over and it's between him and his conscience."

"And you've moved on, as I've seen," he added, referring to Teagan. We had come full circle. His line of conversation started with his probing about my relationship with Teagan, and that's where we ended.

"As has he," I remarked. "He's got a kingdom to deal with now. And I have my own duties."

"And a new man, let's not forget." The brooding Aiden was gone, replaced by the one I knew best.

I gave him a rascally wink. "I'm not likely to forget that part." Rising from the table, I announced that I was going to bed.

"Just like that? You're not going to tell me all about your new love and what plans you two have? He's a fine fellow, but he's rather old for you, don't you think? I mean, I like the guy, don't get me wrong. He's a gentleman. Well, maybe not _entirely_ a gentleman, eh? By your sneaky smile, I'd say not. If that's what you were looking for in a man, there are some older codgers out there that might suit you. How about his brother Eamon? He's a _lot_ older, he's single again, and wouldn't it burn Alistair's arse for you to be involved with his chancellor? Right there in the royal palace? I would pay to see the look on his face."

"Good night, Aiden." I closed my door and left him with his nosy questions and outlandish ideas.


	16. Grand Tour of Ferelden

Grand Tour of Ferelden

Part 1 – "In Death, Sacrifice"

* * *

"Fourteen Orlesian wardens, dead? How in the Maker's name were they caught unaware? Didn't anyone sense darkspawn? Not even _one_ of them?" King Alistair demanded answers, but no one knew how the darkspawn had been able to infiltrate and overtake the Vigil undetected. The seneschal was no Grey Warden. He and the few survivors were ordinary men without the taint.

Seneschal Varel's tone was apologetic. "Your Majesty, we are still investigating the incident, but from what we've discovered so far, it appears the darkspawn came from inside the Vigil."

"_Inside_? How is that possible?" Alistair asked. "This keep should have been secure. Where were the wardens when the attack started?"

"They had only just arrived. They were killed as soon as they entered the courtyard. Before we knew what was happening, all the wardens and most of my officers were dead, Majesty," Varel answered. "The darkspawn were organized. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen. They systematically killed off our people starting with the most skilled fighters—the wardens. The few soldiers that remain are those with little combat experience, but they were able to elude the monsters."

"They hid, in other words. Maybe for the best," Alistair admitted. "Organized darkspawn. That's a first."

"Indeed," Varel said. "One of the darkspawn… This is almost too much to believe, but it spoke."

Alistair scoffed. "Talking darkspawn. Right."

"Sire, I heard it myself. It would have killed me if your man there hadn't shown up in time." He indicated Ser Bryant, newly reassigned to the Vigil to watch over the Orlesian warden mages.

"Good work, Ser Bryant," Alistair commended the templar. "Seeing as there are no mages here, do you want to return to your post at the Circle or wait for the new warden-commander to arrive? She should be here in a few weeks, and she'll need to replenish her numbers. There might be mages among them."

"Whatever Your Majesty wills," Ser Bryant answered. "If I'm not needed at the Circle, I would be honored to serve with the new warden-commander."

"Mages or no, he's needed here, Majesty," Eamon opined. "As it stands, Ser Bryant and Captain Garavel are the only two seasoned warriors aside from the seneschal. The warden-commander will need able fighters until she can recruit more wardens."

"Agreed," Alistair said. "I sense no darkspawn here now, so I'll take my leave. Seneschal Varel, keep looking into the matter and find the source of the attack. If the darkspawn came from within the keep, find the source and close it off."

The king and his entourage departed, leaving Varel and his small band to pick through the rubble, remove the bodies—the parts the darkspawn hadn't eaten—and burn them. With so few survivors and so many dead, they'd likely not finish their work before the warden-commander arrived. Varel hoped she would arrive soon. They sorely needed her leadership.

His captain asked, "Who is the warden-commander? Another Orlesian warden? They failed us in this battle. How much better can one more Orlesian fare against these new darkspawn?"

"No, Garavel. She's not an Orlesian. She's a Marcher, and she's the Hero of Ferelden."

"You're serious? I thought the Hero of Ferelden was… well, a Fereldan. And a man."

* * *

Part 2 – Ooh Baby Baby

Aiden and I left Highever after a few days' visit with Fergus. The brothers needed some family time together since Aiden was to accompany me to Vigil's Keep. From there, we went to Waking Sea, then made an unscheduled stop in Orzammar before traveling southeast until we reached the Imperial Highway. We followed the well-traveled path southward. Every locale we visited was virtually unaffected by the blight and the war. It became increasingly evident that I'd been sent on this errand to keep me away from the Vigil. The knowledge angered me, but I didn't mention it to Aiden. I intended to take it up with Alistair when we next met.

"When are we going to get that new recruit you mentioned?" Aiden asked. He'd been asking every day since we left Denerim, now three weeks past. My answer was the same.

"In good time."

"Come on, Winter. Why is it such a secret? You won't tell me who it is or where we're going to find them?"

"We'll meet them in Lake Calenhad," I answered. It was the first bit of information I'd given him, and he ran with it.

"Maker's curdled blood, you're talking about that nasty dwarf, aren't you? He's the only one in Lake Calenhad besides the tavern keeper, his wife, and the boatman. The town has a population of three, and he makes it four. Or three and a half. Maybe an even four if you throw in his dwarf girlfriend. Anyway, I thought we were rid of Oghren." His babbling never failed to amuse me.

"Didn't you like our pet dwarf?" I teased.

Aiden was put off, as his annoyed tone indicated. "No, I didn't like him. He stank like stale piss, he had the table manners of a half-wit hurlock, and he belched more than he talked. Or maybe I couldn't distinguish between the sound of his voice and his belches. Either way, his breath was so foul that he drove the animals away from camp. I had to walk a few extra miles each time I went out to hunt."

It was nearly impossible not to burst out laughing. Unfortunately, though Oghren was a strong, fearless warrior, he _was_ difficult to tolerate. I agreed with most of what Aiden said. Oghren was a dirty little man, and I mean that in both senses of the word; he was physically unwashed, and he had no sense of propriety around others. His ill manners were matched by his inappropriate jests and comments—all of them sexual in nature. Even Zevran found him repugnant, and Zev was our resident pervert before Oghren joined us.

"We'll manage somehow," I said, smiling on the inside but keeping my expression neutral. My reassurances didn't reassure Aiden at all. He continued to scowl.

By the time we arrived in Rainesfere the seasons were changing. Summer was at an end and the leaves colored the land with lively shades of gold and red. The north breeze carried a hint of colder days to come, and more so when we rode along the edge of the lake. We stopped at Teagan's manor for a couple of days' rest. Teagan's steward welcomed us like royalty, and we were treated to the same hospitality that Alistair and I enjoyed on our visits there. Even in Teagan's absence, the household ran as smoothly as if he were to arrive any minute. The well-trained staff provided us with baths and beds, cozy fires, sumptuous meals, and clean clothes. Our armor was taken to an armor smith in town, and was returned to us cleaned and repaired. The town's weapon smith visited the house with his tools, once the steward learned that neither of us was willing to part with our blades or bow. Aiden's bow was restrung and our swords and daggers were sharpened. The smiths did excellent work. Our equipment was like new.

As with everyone who visited Rainesfere, Aiden found the region serene and picturesque. He spent hours by the lake with his hound, sitting and looking across the water or walking along the shore with Alduin bounding ahead of him. I spent most of the time in my suite. The long ride had turned out to be more taxing than I'd expected, and again I recalled Anders' advice that I rest for at least two weeks. It had been nearly a month since the battle with the archdemon, and still I didn't feel like I'd recovered. In addition to bouts of fatigue, I'd developed a tender stomach. Foods that were once my favorites no longer agreed with me. Scents that were usually pleasing made me queasy. I wrote it off to the rich fare we'd been consuming, and asked for a lighter, blander diet.

After three days we left Rainesfere for the last stop on my list—Redcliffe. My stomach was still sensitive, and I nearly lost my breakfast when the smell of the horses assailed my nostrils. One consolation was that it wasn't constant nausea but came in short spells, then I'd feel fine for the rest of the day. Until dinnertime, when it would hit again. Or if I detected a disagreeable odor, like now. I battled back the urge to vomit, holding a hand over my mouth and nose, turning away from the stables and stepping into the fresh air. Still, the overwhelming stench of horse sweat, urine, and feces made me gag. I'd smelled the foulness of darkspawn without a reaction. They stank like rotted corpses and worse. It was an unnatural stench. But even when I was drenched in their blood, as repugnant as that was, it didn't nauseate me. Not like this.

"Winter, are you ill?" Aiden asked. "You're pale, you've lost enough weight that your armor is loose, and you have no appetite." He peered at me more closely. "You're perspiring. Are you feverish? Should we turn back and find a healer in Rainesfere?"

"I'm okay," I lied. "It's probably the rich food that isn't setting well with me after so many months of scrounging whatever we could find."

"If you say so," he replied doubtfully. "But if you need to stop and rest, don't push on trying to live up to your big fancy 'Hero of Ferelden' title."

"Smartarse," I shot back.

"And this is news to you?" he grinned.

* * *

Part 3 – What Happens in Redcliffe Stays in Redcliffe

Most of the village of Redcliffe was under repair. Weeks ago my party had arrived in time to kill the darkspawn before they burned it as thoroughly as they'd done Lothering, but there were months of work to be done before the town could return to its pre-war condition. On this visit, I was relieved to learn that most of the townsfolk had survived the attack, having taken shelter in the chantry and in the tavern's basement. Mayor Murdock stood in the village square, just as he had when we'd first come to Redcliffe a year earlier. He directed work crews and ordered more lumber and stone to be brought in. Housing was his first priority, followed by some minor repairs to the chantry and reopening the village general goods store. He recognized me.

"You folks here to help, or just dropping by to see the arl?" he growled in his gruff, no-nonsense manner. "If you're here to help, grab a couple of hammers and make yourselves useful."

"Thank you, but we're not here to help with reconstruction," I said, peeved at his presumptuous attitude. "We've come to see the arl."

"He was here earlier this morning, but I think he's gone back to the castle," Murdock said, dismissing us.

Aiden complained, "He must be one damned good mayor if people put up with his pushiness. He's a coarse bastard."

"Forget him," I said. "He's not our problem. Let's go to the castle."

"As you wish, Your Ladyship," he said with a mocking bow, letting me know he hadn't forgotten my useless Starkhaven title. "If you're a marquess, doesn't that mean you outrank your arl boyfriend? For that matter, I outrank him myself even if I'm not officially the teyrn of Highever. You have no siblings to contend with, and only that prissy prince between you and the throne of Starkhaven. So tell me, do you think this old gent will try to marry you so he can move up in status? That's what I would do if I were in his place. I should propose now and beat him to it."

"Yes, you would do something that underhanded," I answered, playing along. "But remember, I know you too well. Your smooth talk and good looks don't work on me."

"You finally admit I'm good-looking! But alas, I'm much too young for your tastes."

"Enough of that," I scolded good-naturedly. We'd reached the castle doors, and I didn't want his rude banter to reach Teagan's ears.

We were welcomed by the steward and brought to the room I remembered as Eamon's study. Teagan had changed the décor, turning the former study into a sitting room. He'd wasted no time making the castle his own.

_Probably to remove any trace that Isolde ever lived here._

Before we had a chance to sit, Teagan came in. He looked more handsome than I remembered, and that was saying a lot. First he greeted Aiden, shaking hands with him and asking after his brother's health. Then he turned his full attention to me.

"I thought you'd never get here," he said, taking me in his arms. We kissed briefly, more than a friendly greeting but not with our usual passion. Our display of affection might have made Aiden uncomfortable, but if so he didn't let on. Instead, he found a seat at the far end of the room and picked up a book, reading or pretending to, and most likely gathering fodder for the gossip, prying questions, and playful taunts that were sure to come later.

It occurred to me that the last time I was in this castle, Teagan and I became lovers. The memory didn't distress me. Quite the opposite. I wondered if he held the recollection as dearly as I did. From his warm welcome and attentiveness, it appeared he hadn't forgotten a moment of it.

* * *

Aiden's favorite hobby was watching people. Not that he learned anything worthwhile from it; his parents had taught him everything that was important in life—family, loyalty, truthfulness, honor, and his formidable fighting skills. But as commendable as those things were, it left a fellow bored. He'd started out observing his little sister's growing crush on the sissy noble boy Dairren. Alyssa was a feisty girl and well able to hold her own in an argument, but whenever the name 'Dairren' was mentioned, she melted like hot wax. Fergus and Aiden found nearly endless amusement at their sister's expense—all in fun, of course. They loved their "runt of the litter".

Today, he observed how Winter and Arl Teagan behaved around each other. His standoffish leader had evolved over the past months into a friendly, fun-loving, kind-hearted woman. Seeing how she gave the arl those doe-eyed glances and coquettish smiles, Aiden hadn't a doubt that she was in love with him. Deny it or avoid the subject as she might, the evidence was clear. After the men had exchanged pleasantries, the arl turned to Winter and his tone and demeanor changed from cordial to downright sappy. Teagan _adored_ Winter. And why shouldn't he? Teagan would be a blessed man if he snagged a prize like her. Hell, _any_ man would, for that matter.

Aiden wished he'd been attracted to her instead of Morrigan. Winter was easily as lovely, but her beauty was of a wholesome sort, not unabashedly seductive like Morrigan's. She carried herself without haughtiness, but she'd been so aloof, not mingling with the others, that his attention was pulled toward the swamp witch's siren song. He answered the call, and what did it get him? Not so much a broken heart as a battered ego. In spite of himself, he still thought of her from time to time, and despite the anger, good memories lingered. They were quickly dampened by his recollection of her devious, manipulative ways, and finally, her faithlessness.

"The stories of Grey Warden endurance are true," he mocked bitterly under his breath, doing a poor imitation of her voice, quoting the line she'd given him after their first romp.

_Maker curse that wretched bitch._

"I'm sorry, Aiden, did you say something?" Winter was looking at him with her still-gooey smile and her eyebrows raised questioningly.

He laughed at himself. "No, boss. I was thinking out loud."

"Okay, but be careful with that. I don't want new recruits thinking all we wardens are mental."

"Aren't we?" he countered, eliciting chuckles from her and her beau.

Winter went back to her conversation with Teagan. The two ogled each other like love-struck adolescents. He'd probably been much like that when he was around Morrigan. The difference here was that these were two normal people sharing deep, honest affection. He was happy for her. After hearing of her life before she became a Grey Warden, he believed that if anyone had earned a shot at happiness, it was Winter.

"I wish you'd sent word ahead that you were just hours away," Teagan said to the two of them. "I would have made preparations for your arrival. The cooks have started dinner but it won't be ready for a while yet. If I'd known you were coming today, I'd have had them set to work earlier so you wouldn't be inconvenienced by having to wait."

"Are you trying to rush us out of here, Arl Teagan?" Aiden smiled.

"Furthest thing from my mind," Teagan answered. "You are always welcome here, for as long as you wish. My home is at your disposal." A servant scurried in, whispered to the arl, and fled as if her skirts were on fire. "Your rooms are ready if you'd like to rest or freshen up after your trip."

The ride from Rainesfere was only a few hours on horseback, but Aiden was ready for a nap. Winter, being the high-born lady that she was, would jump at any chance to have a bath. He remembered how she was the first one to the waterfall every time they returned from an outing or a battle. _Our spoiled little marquess_, he thought with an inner grin.

"The servants will show you to your suites," Teagan continued. "Please, let one of the staff or my steward know if you need or desire anything."

Aiden's suite was on the third floor. It was larger than his parent's suite at Cousland Castle, and it contained everything he needed for his comfort, including a change of clothing—a nobleman's suit, no less. There was water for washing, still steaming. The bath could wait. He took off his weapons and laid them aside, then fell onto the bed in his armor. He was asleep in minutes.

Teagan told the servant he would escort her personally, and the girl curtsied and went back to her duties. They went up the ramp to what Winter remembered as the family quarters, and ended in Eamon's old suite. Like the study, it had been redecorated.

"This is lovely," she remarked, "but this is your room, not mine."

"I was hoping you would consent to share it with me," he said. "I've waited for weeks to be alone with you again. My feelings for you haven't changed, except to grow stronger and deeper."

"I can't," she whispered, with a heavy dose of regret. His crestfallen countenance evoked a pang of guilt. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. His embrace was like steel, his strong arms locking her body against his. Their kisses became deeper, more passionate. She had to pull back or there would be no stopping it. As much as she wanted to continue, the timing had to be right. She didn't want their intimacy devalued to a primitive reaction to pleasurable, physical stimuli.

"I cannot fault you for your integrity, but I do wish you would reconsider. You know that I love you. My intent is not to bring you shame, but to cherish you."

"Teagan, dearest… I have thought of you often, and with great fondness. But I'm not ready to put my relationships up for public scrutiny and gossip. If I spent the night with you in your suite, we would be the subject of crude talk and jests. I'm sure you don't want that any more than I do. It's best if I go to my own room," she said, but her arms were still around his neck. She kissed him again, lightly, meaning it to be a parting kiss. "Alright. Wait. One more kiss and then I'll go."

Teagan chuckled. "Just one? I have a limitless supply of them."

"Don't tempt me."

"That's exactly what I hope to do, dear warden."

"Fine, have it your way."

"Be careful what you ask for," he warned playfully. He kissed her again and again, nibbling her lips, exploring her mouth, relishing her response. He was long past the point of no return, but at her bidding, he would go. Uncomfortably. Achingly.

Something in her manner had changed. The last time they were together intimately, she was in emotional pain, her mien somber. A minute ago she was all seriousness and logic. Now, she was kittenish and seductive. He liked this aspect of her personality.

"Now that you've stolen my heart, what else do you have in mind?" he ventured.

She pretended to consider his question. "Hmm, I don't rightly know. I _could_ steal your suite, I suppose. It's bigger than mine."

"It's yours for the taking," he replied, meaning it.

"And the occupant of said suite?" she asked.

His mouth went dry. "Also yours for the taking," he rasped.

She giggled. "I meant, what will the occupant do if I steal his suite?"

"He will sleep by the door like a devoted mabari."

"There's no need for that," she purred, taking his hands and walking him toward the bed. His heart hammered wildly. She stopped just short of the bed and pointed to the rug beside it. "You can sleep here."

"Impudent minx."

* * *

The passion between us was a force that couldn't be contained. If we were alone together, it took over and made us its helpless—and infinitely delighted—victims. We lay in a tangle of limbs and bedsheets, much like we'd done a month earlier, but this time was different for me. The last time we had made love, I felt a deep closeness, absolute physical gratification, and the warmth of something more than mere friendship. This time, I was _happy_. Truly, genuinely happy. I lay with my head on his chest, as I'd done before. He stroked my hair with one hand, and his other arm held me fast against him.

"I've missed you," I admitted.

"Yes, I could tell as much," he answered glibly. My sharp intake of breath provoked soft laughter from him. "I'm teasing you, beloved. I've missed you terribly as well. If I had my way, you wouldn't leave here again."

"If only that were possible," I sighed.

"Meaning?"

I'd said too much, and I tried to talk my way around it with nonsensical babble. "Meaning that I'm very fond of you, and Rainesfere is a lovely place, and one could make a home here…"

"We're in Redcliffe, darling."

"Yes, that's what I meant. Redcliffe is a… Redcliffe is…" Redcliffe was in a sorry state of disrepair. Hardly a lover's paradise.

"Redcliffe is where _I_ am; that's what you meant to say."

I scowled. "How have I never noticed that you're an arrogant man?"

"I'm not arrogant," he said, abandoning his flippant tone. "I happen to be in love with you, and I'm hoping your misspoken slips are a reflection of what you feel for me. If I express myself in jest, it's only because I fear I might be wrong." He turned on his side, facing me. "Am I fooling myself, getting my hopes impossibly high? Tell me truly, Winter; am I wrong about your feelings for me?"

_What sense is there in pretending, and denying myself a chance at happiness?_

His earnestness drew the truth out of me. "No, you're not wrong. I love you."

"I hardly allowed myself to dream this could be possible."

We lay together for a while longer, basking in the joyous revelation of our mutual love. After a time, I commented that it wouldn't be proper for word to get out that we'd shared a room. "I would be embarrassed if I were caught here."

"Embarrassed? No need for that." To demonstrate his total lack of concern for what others thought, he rose (stark naked) and walked over to where his clothes lay piled on the floor. He was comfortable in my presence, I had to say. And no reason for him not to be. His physique was as well-formed as that of a man half his age. "We'll tell them we're pledged to each other," he said, pulling on his breeches. His nonchalant air almost convinced me it was true. Almost.

"Pledged? You mean _betrothed_? But we're not."

He returned to me and took my face in his hands. "We could be, if you're willing. We love each other, Winter. What is to prevent us from marrying? I want you to be my wife."

_Maker's blood, hurting him is going to tear my heart out._

"Teagan, my love, I can't marry. I'm a Grey Warden. I've given my life to the order, and there's no turning back once a person joins."

"Nonsense," he scoffed. "It's the wardens, not the chantry. Surely there are married wardens. Do you think King Alistair won't take a wife and produce an heir, as is expected of every monarch? Wasn't he a warden like you? Now he's left the wardens to take his place as king."

"Yes, he was a warden. When he accepted the throne, his role changed…"

"And so can yours if you wish it."

He was wrong. The wardens expected every recruit to stay true to the order until death. While it was a fact that some had left, I'd always considered them equal to deserters. But I couldn't reveal my feelings for him and immediately break his heart. "Let me… think on this for a while. It was unexpected. Before I can consider your offer, I have to report to Vigil's Keep and—"

"No! Not the Vigil," he cut in. He had an anxious look. "Not until you hear from the king."

I extricated myself from his embrace and sat up, holding the bedsheet to my chest. "What is going on at the Vigil? If I'm the warden-commander, why am I the only one being kept in the dark? Is it my new post or isn't it?"

"I've heard nothing to the contrary." His answer was irritatingly guarded.

"Nor have I," I groused. "And I'll tell you this. If word doesn't come from Denerim soon, I'll go to Amaranthine and find out for myself what all the mystery is about."

"I wish you wouldn't do that."

"Why? What's the big secret?"

"The king is awaiting your report…"

"My report," I scoffed. I was becoming angrier by the minute, and Teagan was bearing the brunt of my wrath—unfairly, I might add. "A bogus report about a needless tour of the safest parts of Ferelden. What kind of assignment is that?"

"One that the king thought was necessary," he reasoned. "When you report back to him, you can ask him his reasons for the tour if you wish. I for one don't regret that your assignment brought you here."

_Andraste's butt crack, why does he make me feel so guilty?_

"You're right. I'll see him soon enough, and you can be sure I will ask him about this waste of time."

"Not a complete waste, I hope."

"Stop fishing for compliments," I said, but the anger was gone. He had a knack for cheering me.

"I don't know about you, but I've worked up an appetite." He gazed at me with a sly smile. "As fetching as you look, my love, may I suggest you wear something less… revealing… to dinner?"

* * *

Aiden looked well-rested and right at home in his noble clothing. He was a handsome man. Small wonder that Morrigan set her sights on him from the start. I did have to wonder, though, how she put up with his personality. She didn't like jokes or fun or general chatting. She was blunt and concise in her speech. Aiden was a talker. He loved to joke at anyone's expense, including his own. He liked to laugh and to make others around him laugh. They were as different as could be, but somehow they'd found love. Temporarily.

Shoving all thought of the witch out of my mind, I sat at dinner with my two favorite fellows—my lover and my surrogate big brother. Aiden kept a steady flow of conversation going, asking Teagan about everything from Ferelden politics to the fishing in Lake Calenhad. I listened, not adding much to their discussion. It wasn't that I found it uninteresting (for the most part). I was fighting back another bout of queasiness, brought on by the aromas of the many rich dishes the cooks had prepared for us.

"My dear, is there something wrong with your dinner?" Teagan asked when he noticed I wasn't eating. "If this isn't to your liking, I can have the cook prepare anything you desire."

Aided piped up. "She's been like this for a week. In camp, I've seen the woman eat anything from wolf chops to nug meat to Korcari rat, and I thought I might have to fight her for my share. Nowadays, she'll hardly eat plain bread."

Teagan looked worried, and I wanted to belt Aiden across his big mouth for telling so much. "Could it be that some of the wild meats you ate made you ill? Maker… it sounds disgusting."

"It was," Aiden agreed. "But there were times we were hungry enough to eat darkspawn if one had wandered into our camp."

That last mental image was more than I could stand. I excused myself from the table, ran up to my suite, and retched until my stomach muscles ached.

_What's wrong with me? I was foolish to go against Anders' advice. What if I've caused myself irreparable damage?_

Anxiety produced a fresh wave of nausea. I sat next to my chamber pot until it seemed as if we'd developed a kinship. When the queasiness abated, I dragged myself to my bed and lay down. Even though I shivered with a chill while I upchucked, I perspired the whole time. My clothes now clung to my skin uncomfortably. There would be no sleeping like this. I rose and rang for a servant.

"My Lady," a young girl said, coming into my room on quiet, slippered feet. "The arl is most anxious to know of your health."

"Tell the arl I was overtired from travel and I'm resting. I'd like water for a bath, and then I plan to retire for the night."

"Yes m'lady. I'll have the water fetched up to you right away." She bobbed a curtsy and left.

The chill and nausea were gone. Could Teagan have been right about the food we'd eaten in camp causing this? Maybe some of the things we ate was tainted or spoiled. A lot of it sure tasted bad.

_Stop it! I can't think about it unless I want to spend the whole night hugging the chamber pot._

The water arrived a while later. In the meantime, I dozed off and awoke feeling much better. My empty stomach rumbled in protest. I'd regained some of my appetite. I asked for a plate of bread and cheese, and a flagon of spiced mead to be brought up to my suite.

"Leave it by the door," I instructed the girl. "I'll fetch it after my bath."

My suite had a beautiful silk screen, three panels wide, that folded out for use and back in for storage. I'd heard of these things but never owned or seen one. If for no other reason than to admire it, I pulled it out and placed it in front of the bath. Then I checked outside in the hallway and found my food on a tray beside the door. I brought it in and devoured it.

_Now for my bath_. The tub in this suite was about half the size of the average bath, but it was made of polished marble rather than rough stone. Need I tell you that it was a lot kinder to my bare buttocks than scratchy granite? I poured half the water into the tub and sat, letting the half-inch depth soak my hamstrings and little else. I took another ewer, poured some of it on my head, and washed my hair. About that time, I heard someone enter the room.

"Hello? Who's there?" I called out. Probably a servant with poor timing.

I heard some rustling about, but because of my present state of undress, I didn't peek around the screen. Whoever it was, I was sure they'd heard me. It was probably the same young girl, come to check on the linens or turn down the bed. I wasn't unduly worried.

"Would m'lady care for some company?"

Teagan's voice startled me. I looked round and saw him standing next to the screen. He wore a smile. Nothing else.

"Why not? You're appropriately dressed for it."

One might say he took improper liberties. To me, it was a surprising new experience, and one I would gladly repeat with him any time. I was past any pretense of denial. I was in love, really in love. It wasn't infatuation like I'd had for Sebastian or the confused attraction I'd felt for Alistair. Teagan taught me the difference between the three. He made me happy, and if there were a way to leave the wardens, I would do so for him.

* * *

Part 4 – Old Friend, New Warden

Aiden and I stayed in Redcliffe for a few days, and while we were there, I received a message from the king. I was to report to Denerim at once, then on to Vigil's Keep. Before we headed to the palace, I had to make the stop in Lake Calenhad. Teagan understood we'd be gaining a new recruit and he gave us one of his horses for our companion.

"Are you sure you don't want a pony instead?" Aiden asked. "Oghren's short legs will never reach the stirrups, and I'm not going to pick the filthy little beast up to put him on his mount."

I repeated what I'd told him before. "We'll manage."

"So you say. You must have a rope ladder hidden somewhere in your pack."

We stopped in at the Spoiled Princess, where I inquired of Felsi, Oghren's girlfriend. She was with child. Oghren's, I assumed, but I wasn't going to be so rude as to ask. I did ask her, though, when she'd last seen Oghren.

"A couple of weeks ago," she said. "As soon as he was healed enough to fight, he took off for Amaranthine."

"Why Amaranthine?" I asked.

"You think he tells me anything?" She was angry with him, either for leaving her alone and pregnant, or just because he was Oghren the ill-mannered oaf. I thanked her for her time and we left the tavern.

"That's a relief," Aiden said. "Maybe he'll change his mind, go back to Orzammar, and we'll be rid of him for good. For now, I don't have to worry about riding downwind of him."

"I need to stop in at the Circle for a minute," I said, too preoccupied to fully enjoy his humor.

"You're going to see that healer? Good idea. You've got everyone worried."

Knight-Commander Cullen greeted us in the entrance hall. "Welcome, Wardens." He bowed to me and added, "And to the Hero of Ferelden. You have our thanks, my lady."

"I've come to see the mage Anders, if you please," I said, getting right to the point.

"Are you in need of a healer, my lady? We have other mages…"

"No thank you. I'd prefer to see Anders. Would you please have him brought down?"

"I'm sorry, Warden…"

"Warden-Commander," I corrected him, using my rank for the first time.

"Warden-Commander, Anders has been locked up in solitary confinement since he was brought back from Denerim. He escaped, as you're aware, and he refuses to accept that he is only safe within the Circle."

"But surely you can bring him out…"

"No," Cullen interrupted. "His sentence is one year, and he's lucky it's not two years since he's already served a year in solitary from a previous escape. Evidently he didn't learn from it."

"Then you have forced my hand, Ser. I hereby invoke the Grey Warden's Right of Conscription on the mage Anders, and I demand you bring him out at once."

"You must be joking."

"I've never been more serious, Knight-Commander."

"The First Enchanter will hear of this," Cullen threatened. As if that made any difference. Cullen himself didn't bow to the First Enchanter; did he think I would?

He sent a templar to fetch Anders and another to tell Irving what was going on. Irving was the first to arrive in the hall, and he was angry enough to spit fireballs.

"What do you think you're doing, Warden-Commander?" he growled in his slow, gravelly voice. "Anders is a trouble-maker. The only reason he hasn't been made tranquil is because he passed his harrowing, and I can't legally neutralize him. I ask you to carefully consider your actions."

"The decision is made, First Enchanter. Anders belongs to the Grey Wardens now."

"Then Maker have mercy on you both. You'll need it more than he does."

Anders began protesting as soon as he saw me. "I didn't want to tell them! The king pressed me for answers. They all knew I wasn't telling them everything."

"Who is this 'all'? Besides the king, who did you tell?" I asked, none too gently.

"I don't know who they were. He had two men with him. One was old and bearded, a little younger than old Irving here. The other was younger than him but older than the king."

_Not the best descriptions, but I know who he's talking about. Alistair, Eamon, and Teagan. So _that's_ why everyone treated me like a fragile porcelain doll. That's why I was sent all over Ferelden and away from Amaranthine. They expected me to have a nice vacation tour of the country before I went back to my duties._

"We'll deal with that later. That's not why I'm here, Anders. I've conscripted you into the Grey Wardens."

"Really? I'm free of this blighted tower and these templars forever? I'm a Grey Warden now?"

"Not yet. You have to survive the joining first."

Over loud protests and warnings from Cullen and Irving, Aiden and I left with my new recruit.

"I'm sorry, really I am, Warden," Anders said, continuing his apologies. "I know I gave my word, but truth be told, you were endangering your life by going against my recommendation. Your friends were worried for you."

"I kept my promise to you," I pointed out. I wasn't angry with him. Not really. After the way I'd been feeling, between the fatigue and the nausea, I was wrong not to follow his directions. But I wasn't about to admit my fault to him.

"You did," he said contritely. "And I'm grateful to you. I don't fully know what it is to be a Grey Warden, but I'll do whatever I must to repay your kindness."

I introduced him to Aiden. "He'll keep an eye on you and tell you some of the kind of work you can expect to do." I was feeling too queasy for chatter. The stressful confrontation at the tower did me no favors.

"Where are we going, if I may ask?" Anders asked.

"Denerim," Aiden replied. "We have an audience with the king."


	17. We Need to Talk

We Need to Talk…

Part 1 –The King and I

"Tell King Alistair that the Warden-Commander is here," I ordered the court page. I was irritable today. The ride to Denerim was long and the weather cold and rainy. If not for the stupid delay, running all over western Ferelden for nothing, I could have been snug in the Vigil before the pre-winter winds howled across the bannorn, making travel slow and arduous.

His Majesty entered the room bedecked in shiny gold and silver armor—a waste of perfectly good battle attire. _(Hadn't I once had similar thoughts about King Cailan?)_ The three of us took a knee, as was the traditional gesture of respect for the reigning king or queen. When we rose, he greeted each of us in turn. First me, with a kiss on the cheek. Since I liked having my head attached to my neck, I restrained myself from returning his greeting with a knee to the groin. He extended his hand to Aiden. Aiden shook it with a barely perceptible moue of disgust, as if the king's hand were smeared with dung. The monarch then turned his eyes on Anders and thanked him again for saving the Hero of Ferelden. Anders bowed and kept silent. It wouldn't bode well for him to blab to the king that he'd blabbed about the king's prying to me, would it?

"I'm looking forward to hearing your report," Alistair said, as if he expected any real news.

"Not so much as I'm looking forward to giving the report, Majesty," I said with false humility.

"Excellent! Let's speak privately in the study, shall we? The throne room is so… oppressive, don't you think?" I assumed it was a rhetorical question and didn't respond.

Eamon saw us walking toward the study. He greeted me, and asked Alistair, "Will you need me to accompany you, Your Majesty?"

_Isn't this the same boy you sent away because of your shrew of a wife, Eamon? Now you fawn over him like a little god. All the pomp and titles are becoming tiresome._

"Actually, Eamon, I'd like to speak with the warden-commander privately," Alistair replied.

_And I have some things to say to you that you might not want Eamon to hear, O Great One._

"As you wish," Eamon said with a courtly bow.

Alistair walked ahead, opened the door for me like a perfect gentleman, and closed the door behind us. "Have you any idea how long I've been waiting for a chance to talk to you alone?" he began in his familiar schmoozing tone.

"Perhaps if you hadn't sent me on that ridiculous trip across Ferelden, you could have spoken with me a lot sooner," I retorted. Any pretense of a king-subject relationship was dropped. We would converse as Alistair and Winter, not as our titles dictated.

"I did that with good reason," he said. "If you'll let me explain."

"There are a few things I'd like you to explain, but that is as good a starting place as any."

He peered at me quizzically, unsure of why I was so hostile. He undoubtedly knew I'd figured out early on that the so-called mission was bogus, and that I resented the deception. But my anger and tone seemed disproportionately harsh for such a minor offense.

"To be honest with you, I waited outside your room to speak with the healer, that fellow Anders, after you woke from your coma," he said. "In the previous blights, every Grey Warden that slew the archdemon died immediately. You survived—thank the Maker—but the encounter with the archdemon left you comatose. I wanted his assurance that you were really recovered and that it wasn't a temporary fix."

"Is prying into my personal affairs a royal privilege?"

"Prying? What? No! For Andraste's sake, Winter, I was worried half to death about you. I didn't know when you would recover, or _if_ you would recover, or if Morrigan…" He faltered, caught himself, and went on, "...if Morrigan had injured you on the rooftop."

_We'll get to Morrigan later. Let's cover the Vigil first._

"Why did you keep me away from the Vigil? You left my room and changed your mind on the way to the front door, just that quickly?"

"There was nothing for you to do at the Vigil…"

"Don't play me for a fool, Alistair," I hissed at him. "Aiden and I saw a company of soldiers heading to Amaranthine, and they weren't going on a pleasure trip. They were armed, armored, and on a forced march."

He sighed, caught in his first lie of the day. "You're right. I apologize. While I was speaking with Anders, a messenger arrived from the Vigil. It suffered a darkspawn attack that left all fourteen Orlesian wardens dead, along with most of the soldiers in the keep. Without the Orlesians, who were to bolster the wardens' numbers in Ferelden, it left only you and Aiden, and I wasn't taking that chance with your lives. After Anders told us you needed at least two weeks of rest, which I knew you would not stand for, I decided to send you on an errand that would keep you out of harm's way until you were stronger. I wanted to deal with the attack on the Vigil and settle things before your arrival."

"Commendable."

"It should have been," he riposted, his ire rising in reaction to my sarcasm. "I did it to keep you safe. Is that so wrong? Don't I have the right to send my officers wherever I need them?"

"Indeed, Your Majesty."

"Stop that!" he bellowed. "Drop the attitude and talk to me. Say what's on your mind, but don't treat me like a stranger. I only had your best interests at heart."

"Did you have my best interests at heart when you bedded Morrigan?" I sneered.

He blanched visibly. "I… No, you don't understand… It wasn't what you think."

"_Wasn't it_? Sex is sex, right?" He kept his eyes on the floor, and I went on. "I heard the two of you planning to lie together and to make sure I never knew of it. I _heard_ you, Alistair; it wasn't something I dreamed or made up in a fit of jealousy. I stupidly went to see if you were alright after Riordan told us that a Grey Warden would die in the final battle. I wanted to make sure you didn't lose sleep over it, because we needed our strength for the march and the war. But you had other things to occupy your mind."

"No, that's not how it was. Not at all!"

"I don't want to hear how it was," I snapped. "Spare me the details, if you'd be so kind."

He grasped my arms tightly. "No. You're going to listen to me. You have to hear me out." I stood there, trapped in his grip, while he spun me a tale that would have made a bard jealous. It was so ludicrous, so fanciful, that it could only have been the product of a lot of ale, a dose of lyruim, and some hastily constructed lies. Throw in a nightmare for good measure, and there you have it. The explanation to beat all explanations.

"Do you honestly expect me to buy that load of hog toss?"

"I know. I know it sounds too fantastic to believe, but it's the truth. I was unaware of Morrigan. There was no sex that I can recall. There was certainly no pleasure involved. It was a demonic ritual, and she promised me it would save the warden who made the kill."

_If it were true, it would have explained why she eagerly seduced Aiden, and why she was so angry when he left. More than that, it explained why I was still alive. But how could such a thing be real? Even magic has its limits._

"And her price for this service was your baby?"

"Yes."

"_Your_ baby. It couldn't be anyone else's. Not Riordan's, not Zevran's, not Sten's…"

"No. It had to be a Grey Warden, and it had to be one recently tainted. Riordan took the taint thirty years earlier. My taint was about eighteen months old."

It was too far-fetched, even for a witch. She despised Alistair, but she insisted on having him impregnate her? "I'm sorry, but I cannot believe your story. If you didn't care how your betrayal might affect _me_, did you give a thought to Aiden, who trusted you as a friend?"

"Winter, please," he groaned. "I… No, I didn't think about Aiden. I thought only of you. I hated to deceive you. I didn't want to be in the same house with that woman, much less in the same room. I did what she asked of me to save your life because I love you."

A long silence stretched out. At last I answered him, "Then you should have let me die." Without waiting for a response, I pulled out of his grasp.

"Wait!" He snagged my arm again. "You can't leave it at this. What will happen to us?"

I looked him straight in the eye and measured each word. "There is no 'us'. There never was, and even if there had been a chance of anything developing between us, it's gone. Now if you will take your hands off me, Majesty, I'd like to leave this wretched city and report for duty at the Vigil."

"Winter…" His voice was a mournful whisper. He released me, and I left him there in his misery.

* * *

Part 2 – Keeping the Vigil

We arrived to a startling sight. Portions of the walls had been ripped away by projectiles. Piles of wood, possibly furniture or large weapons like ballistae, smoldered outside her gates. Other piles of a more ominous nature put off a sickly stench—the odor of burning human flesh. We stopped our horses and looked about at the destruction. It was reminiscent of Ostagar.

Our party had grown to four members. Along the way to the Vigil we met a female warrior named Mhairi. Before the Vigil came into view, Aiden and Anders competed for her attention. Now we were all silenced. No banter, no flirting.

I dug my heels into my horse's flanks to urge him forward at a slow walk. We surveyed the scene, imagining the horrors that the Orlesian wardens and the soldiers suffered in their last moments of life. Right before the gates we saw a massive amount of blood. Puddles ran into each other to make one big lake of gore. This, I presumed, was where the wardens met their end. They'd been ambushed, and none of them sensed darkspawn. Why? Were these darkspawn so different that their taint escaped detection? Were the wardens distracted by something, making them careless and vulnerable? Conversely, did they in fact sense the monsters, but were overwhelmed by sheer numbers? Without a survivor to tell me, I would not learn the truth of what happened here.

We left our horses at the foot of the steps leading up to the Vigil's courtyard. So far, we hadn't encountered a single living soul. No sounds of conversation or of activity reached us. It was as though we had entered a crypt.

A young woman appeared at the entrance to the keep proper. She was a messenger, coming to her post, waiting for my arrival. "Warden-Commander?" she asked when she saw me.

"Yes. Where is everyone else? Are you alone here?"

"No Ser. The seneschal, the captain, and the soldiers are inside the keep. Most of them are in the throne room, clearing it of debris and preparing for your arrival."

"I'd like to go there now. I need to meet the seneschal."

She led the way to the throne room. Inside the keep, there was evidence of repair and cleaning. Aside from the young private, it was the first sign of life we'd seen. The throne room—minus any thrones that I could see—was a large hall for meetings and official business. It would also serve as the room where the joining ritual would be held. The room had been thoroughly cleaned and organized. At the far end of the room, the seneschal, the captain, and a templar stood waiting.

"A bloody templar," Anders muttered. I hushed him.

The seneschal, a silver-haired man in officer's armor, stepped forward to greet me. "Warden-Commander, welcome to Vigil's Keep. I am Seneschal Varel. I apologize for the disarray, but we lack the manpower to finish repairs before your arrival."

"It's quite alright, Seneschal Varel," I said absently, looking about at the room.

"This is Captain Garavel," Varel continued. "He'll assist you with the military… once we have a military again. And this…" he turned to his right, "…is Ser Bryant, recently arrived from the Circle of Magi, and the man who saved my life."

"Ser Bryant," I greeted him, "what a pleasure to find you here, alive and well."

He peered at me for a heartbeat, then his face lit up with recognition. "I remember you! You were the young lady in Lothering. You were a raw recruit when we met. The Maker has had His hand on you indeed."

"We must talk later, Ser Bryant. I want to know what happened in Lothering after we left."

"As you wish, Warden-Commander."

"Captain Garavel," I gave him a nod of greeting and received a courteous bow in return.

"This templar," Anders pestered me. "He's a friend of yours?"

"He is," I answered. "And he'll be a friend of yours too, since we'll be fighting together." I introduced my party to the officers. "This is Aiden, my senior warden," I said, to Aiden's astonishment. "These two are recruits ready for the joining." I finished the introductions and asked Varel how soon we could proceed with the ritual.

"Give me a few minutes to prepare, Warden-Commander," he answered.

Ser Bryant approached me. "Warden-Commander," he began, "I've been thinking on this for a while. If you'll permit me, I would like to join the Grey Wardens. My fighting skill is at your disposal, of course, but I feel I would be of more use to you as a warden."

"I would be happy to have you join us, Ser Bryant," I answered. "Wardens are needed, and your offer is accepted." I stopped Varel, who was almost out the door. "Prepare for three recruits, Seneschal." He nodded his understanding.

While he went to fetch the items for the ritual, we looked around the throne room. Aiden couldn't hold his questions in any longer. "Senior warden? When did you decide that? When did you plan on telling me? Here? Now? No congratulations, no ceremony, no parade, nothing?"

"Does it help if I tell you that you and I are the only living wardens in Ferelden right now?"

"No, it doesn't," he smirked. "It means you had no other options, so I got the post."

"Not true," I soothed his ruffled feathers. "I could have waited until we had a full complement of wardens and chosen from any of them, but I'd already selected you. I want all of them to know from the start that when I'm not around, you are in command." That appeased him. I added, to further stroke his ego, "Congratulations, Senior Warden of Amaranthine."

Varel returned, and we held the joining ritual. I was apprehensive. Knowing the percentage of recruits who die during the joining, I hoped mine would survive it. All of them did, to my relief.

The trip had been long and I was tired and queasy. I asked Varel to have someone show me to my quarters. He took us around personally, pointing out the dining hall and the armory along the way.

The living quarters had been undamaged in the assault. The wardens' rooms were rather nice, hardly what one would think of as barracks. Instead of several beds to a room, each room was private. Aiden's was a larger suite, nicely furnished, outfitted with cupboards and a bath. Mine was as fine and spacious as the suite I'd occupied at Rainesfere or Redcliffe Castle. After learning where their superiors' suites were located, Anders, Mhairi, and Bryant returned to their rooms to recover from the ritual. Aiden never passed up an opportunity to take a nap, and he retired to his suite as well. I needed a rest before I plunged into the huge task of overseeing the repairs of the keep, meeting with the arling's landowners and nobles, finding more recruits to replenish the wardens' numbers, and visiting the city of Amaranthine.

Before I entered my suite, Varel told me he would be waiting in the throne room to brief me on all matters concerning the Vigil. He didn't know if I'd been informed about the peculiarities of the attack, but there was also the condition of the keep to be discussed, and our most urgent needs.

"Tell me now," I said.

He told me how the attack was organized, unlike the typical darkspawn attack. There was no archdemon to lead them, but clearly they were being led by _something_. He believed their leader, or their leader's officer, was a talking darkspawn (I thought the good seneschal might have helped himself a little too liberally to the keep's wine cellar, but I held my tongue). Warden Bryant had killed the talking monster, but not before it made references to "the mother".

"A broodmother?" I wondered. "They aren't intelligent beings any more than darkspawn are."

"I'm not familiar with broodmothers," Varel admitted. Of course he wasn't. We'd only found one, and that was more than enough. The thought that there might be another was unsettling; the possibility that a broodmother had retained her sanity and was directing the monsters she spawned was direful. I related the account of the broodmother we'd discovered and killed in the Dead Trenches.

"Maker…" He was at a loss for words beyond that.

I moved the conversation along, eager to get to my room and rest. "I noted the damage to the walls. Catapults, I assume?"

"Yes, and we were lucky that only two areas were hit. They had the means to flatten the keep but lacked the know-how. I think their leader—this 'mother' the monster spoke of—isn't so much a military leader as she is a lunatic, with the annihilation of the Grey Wardens as her goal."

"Quite possible," I agreed. "She made a good start of it. The wardens are the darkspawns' primary threat. We just killed their former leader, the archdemon. After a blight, they usually retreat for a few centuries. This attack coming so soon after a blight is disturbing."

"I couldn't agree more," he said grimly. "That's part of why they were able to catch us off guard. Nobody thought they would be seen for at least another hundred years or more."

"What is the most pressing need, then? Other than reconstruction."

"The basement hasn't been cleared. There may yet be survivors trapped down there. Even with the soldiers the king sent from Denerim to aid us, we still lack the manpower to go through it as thoroughly as we ought."

"Send a message to the king in my name," I instructed him, and started a flurry of orders. "Tell him I require another regiment here immediately, of at least thirty able-bodied men. We need a shipment of supplies—food, arms, and armor—to feed and equip the troops until the Vigil is back in operation. Bunks for the troops, if there aren't enough to accommodate that many men. A full kitchen staff to prepare meals. Household servants to see to the daily cleaning. We'll have to hold court for the nobles and other visitors soon, and probably the king himself at some point.

Any craftsmen Denerim can spare, particularly armor and weapons smiths who can make and maintain our equipment. Additionally, I'll need stoneworkers to repair the breeches in the walls, even if they have to bring experts in from Orzammar."

"Very good, Warden-Commander," he said. "I'll dispatch the message right away." He hesitated.

"Yes? Have I left anything out, Varel?"

"No, Warden-Commander. However, we have a dwarf here who is a master stoneworker. He says what we're lacking is proper stone for the repair work. That, and workers to assist him."

"Then it's up to me and my wardens to go out and find him some stone," I answered. "That will be all." It had been a productive day. The wardens now numbered five, and I planned to keep an eye out for promising recruits until there were ten or twelve. In my thinking, there could never be too many wardens, and I'd already experienced the dangers of there being too few. I entered my quarters, satisfied with the progress we'd made in the few hours we'd been here, and looking forward to a nap before dinner.

Within a week, the king sent all the personnel and supplies I'd requested. Master Wade, the smith who had designed my dragonskin armor, was among them. There was no finer smith in Denerim, and I was happy to have his expertise at my disposal. Wade, on the other hand, wasn't at all happy with the Vigil's location. Its northern location and the cold, rainy climate didn't agree with him. I assured him the post was a temporary one, and that quieted him for now.

* * *

Anders woke from a nightmare, wild-eyed and perspiring, his heart pounding out a frantic beat. He'd been prone to occasional bad dreams before, but this one was terrifying. He heard strange sounds, not exactly whisperings but unintelligible grunts and murmuring. Images of monstrous beasts like the ones he'd fought in Denerim filled his mind, but they were more numerous and had the ability to communicate. That was the worst of it. The darkspawn could talk, and they talked to _him_, trying to entice him to betray his fellow wardens, particularly the warden-commander, to their leader, the "mother".

He held his head in his hands until his pulse and breathing slowed to normal. What could have brought on such a dream? It had been weeks since he fought those monsters. Why would the thought come to him now? He had no answers, but he intended to ask the warden-commander about that joining business. Nobody mentioned he'd have to drink darkspawn blood until the seneschal handed him the chalice. He couldn't take a small sip of it, either. He was required to swallow the contents of the cup, which, thankfully, was a relatively small amount for such a massive drinking vessel. But the blood stank and tasted worse than anything he could imagine.

_Like dead man's blood._

Yes, that was probably a close comparison, though he hadn't sampled any of _that_ either. No wonder the recruits who passed their joining fainted. No wonder so many didn't survive it. With that thought in mind, he had secretly wished that blasted templar would die from the blood, but no. Anders' luck didn't run in his favor. The skirted bastard was as strong as he looked, and he was the first to awaken after the ritual.

"He just bounced right back like the proverbial rubber ball," he muttered aloud.

He turned his thoughts back to the dream, which was rapidly fading from memory. One thing that stayed with him was the title, "the mother". Who or what was this mother? If such a being existed, he expected they would meet soon enough. As for betraying his fellows, the bitch had a surprise coming. He might be a pain in the templars' arse, but he wasn't a turncoat. That foul blood created a bond between him and the other wardens—and yes, even Bryant. He'd never been a real part of anything in the Circle, but the wardens were a brotherhood. Bound by blood. Nasty, disgusting, vile-tasting darkspawn blood.

_Nothing creepy about that._

* * *

Part 3 – Things That Go Bump in the Night

The basement was opened for us and we entered it, alert for danger and for the cries of trapped survivors. As much time as had passed since the initial attack, finding anyone alive down there would have been a miracle. Damage to the structure itself was minimal. Darkspawn customarily set fire to anything combustible, but there was no fire damage here. Nor were there survivors. We found corpses, most of them half-eaten, _all_ of them ripped apart.

"Breaking them down into bite-size pieces," Aiden observed.

"Have you no respect for the dead, Senior Warden?" Mhairi scolded him.

"I save my sentiments for the living, Warden," he answered. Mhairi's use of Aiden's title rather than his name indicated her disapproval; Aiden's use of her title was his way of initiating a flirtation with her. She wasn't taking the bait, but they'd only known each other since yesterday.

It would be interesting to see if something developed between them. Something other than their current enmity, that is.

"Let's move on," I prodded them. "Bryant and Anders, check that hallway to the left. The rest of us will go right." I purposely paired up the mage and the templar. One way or another, they were going to have to learn to work together. Bryant was indifferent to apostates in his new role as a warden, obeying my orders without question. Anders was my problem child. It would take all my patience to rein in his blatant hatred of all templars. Today, though, he was subdued.

We split up and scoured the basement for enemies, and for any sign of an entry point where they could have invaded the keep. We found the wine cellar intact, with dozens of bottles of wine and spirits lining its shelves. Our search took us through a library of books on religion and folklore, an empty armory, and at last, to a training room. Bryant and Anders finished their search and joined us. Their timing was perfect, because the training room contained darkspawn.

There was nothing unusual about these creatures, unlike the story the seneschal had told. They were the typical genlocks, hurlocks, two alpha hurlocks, and a genlock emissary. A burst of lightning at my back alerted me to its presence. My practice was to remove the enemy mages first, then deal with the melee fighters and archers. Anders took on the emissary, finishing it off with a fireball that engulfed its short body in flames and killed it instantly.

"Good work," I commended him between foes. "I'm glad healing isn't your only talent." A poor choice of words if ever there was one.

"My dear lady, I have talents that would surprise and delight you. I'll be happy to come to your quarters and demonstrate," he said with an exaggerated leer.

"Shut it, Anders," Aiden snarled at him. He liked Anders well enough, but he'd become protective of me. "She's your superior. It won't hurt you to learn respect for a change. Seems you learned none in the tower."

"I was joking!" Anders protested. "She knows that." He looked at me for affirmation, "You _do_ know that, don't you?"

"Sounded pretty serious to me," I said dryly.

The enemies lay dead around us, and we pushed deeper into the basement toward the furthest reaches. Before we came to the end of the basement, we encountered a second group of darkspawn locked in battle. Oghren had snuck into the basement, unbeknownst to the guard at the door (who would receive a proper reprimand for his carelessness), and conducted his own search of the basement. We found him holding a number of hurlocks at bay with a mean-looking battleaxe. Several more lay dead on the floor, hewn in half or beheaded.

"Son of a bitch," Aiden said. "If it were anyone else, I'd be happy to see them."

We joined in the battle and finished the remaining creatures, then Oghreh informed me, without preamble, that he wanted to join the wardens.

"Just like that?" I replied. "There's no turning back, you know. It's a lifetime commitment."

"You think I got something better to do?" he answered. "I've been kicked out of my caste and barred from Orzammar. Wife's dead, girlfriend won't speak to me, got no family. Fighting is all I know. Might as well use my skills against these ugly bastards." He kicked a darkspawn corpse to illustrate his point.

"Fine. We'll get to your joining as soon as we're done down here." If he wanted to be a warden, so be it. We could use the help. "Let's finish up. One more room to go, it appears."

What we found was worse than darkspawn. A handful of survivors had taken refuge in the back room of the basement. When no one came to their aid, they assumed the keep had been completely overrun and everyone was dead. They were without food and water for days. To survive, they turned to cannibalism. Some in their number were dying of the taint; they were the first to be eaten. Consuming the tainted flesh turned the others into ghouls. They were a horrific sight, with blackening skin and bloodstained hands and teeth. They attacked us on sight. Killing them was a merciful act.

Beyond the ghouls' hideout was a tunnel, but the entrance had been blocked by a cave-in. Maybe it had been that way all along, but there was a chance the cave-in was purposely done to cover the darkspawn's initial entry into the keep. We returned upstairs and ordered that the way be cleared. It would take several days, we were told.

I told Varel, "If that was their way into the keep, it's been sealed by a cave-in and we needn't worry about another attack from that route. But once it's cleared, I intend to follow it to the source. If it leads to the Deep Roads, as I suspect it does, we'll have to seal it off permanently." I instructed him to prepare the joining ritual for Oghren. He survived it. Not only survived, but he found the darkspawn blood tastier than his dwarven ale.

"Disgusting," Anders remarked. Aiden agreed. Bryant and Mhairi were too appalled by the vulgar dwarf to speak.

Unlike the other recruits, the tainted blood had little effect on Oghren. His eyes rolled back in his head but he didn't pass out. Whether he was incredibly hearty, or if dwarves reacted differently than humans and elves, I didn't know. Chances were that Oghren was just an odd character in every way.

In truth, Oghren wasn't anyone's favorite warden. He was gruff, coarse, and as I've told you previously, crude and offensive. But he could fight. What this came down to was our need for able fighters. Personality issues would have to be set aside.

* * *

Part 4 – Double-Whammy

Word reached me of an intruder that was being held in the dungeon. He'd been caught trying to enter the keep, and it took several soldiers to pin him down and shackle him so that the guards could lock him up. He was awaiting a trial or sentencing, as the seneschal saw fit. Varel turned the matter over to me.

"What was he doing here?" I asked Varel. "The Vigil has little of value to anyone other than book collectors or fighters."

"I can't say," he answered. "The fellow hasn't spoken since we apprehended him. Not even to declare his innocence or ask for a trial. Nothing."

"Let me try talking to him," I suggested. Not that I had a special way with people or anything, but I was curious about a man who could wrestle several soldiers down. He must have been a brute.

The man was an average fellow, not especially tall or large or heavily muscled as I'd thought. He was sitting on the floor, glaring at me as I approached the cell. His icy reception wasn't unexpected, since he was the prisoner and I was the one who would decide his fate. A guard stood watch over him. It seemed pointless, since the prisoner wasn't going anywhere. His belongings were well out of his reach, and he was dressed in plain worker's garments. He couldn't very well pick the lock with wishful thinking, could he?

"Let me speak with the prisoner alone," I told the guard. When he'd left, I took the key and opened the cell door. "Alright, whoever you are, why don't you tell me why you're here and what you hoped to accomplish by breaking into the keep."

He stood slowly, making sure to drag this out and waste as much of my time as he could. If he hoped to anger me, he was wasting his own time as well.

"So you're the great Hero of Ferelden," he said scornfully. "Aren't you supposed to have godlike powers?"

"In a sense, I do," I responded. "The power of life and death over you, to be precise. But again I ask you, what were you doing here at my keep?"

"It's not your keep," he rejoined. "This is my home. It _was_ my home, until you murdered my father and your king stripped my family of everything we had left to us."

"I take it your name is Howe."

"Nathaniel Howe. Not that it matters who I am, since I'm on my way to the gallows. I imagine you have the noose ready for me, or must I be forced to endure your 'hospitality' much longer?"

"So you weren't breaking in. You just came home to pick up a few things?" I could match his sarcasm with my own, if that's how he wanted to play it. "Before we go further, let me tell you a little story. This traitor by the name of Howe—same name as yours, incidentally—murdered a teyrn and his family without cause. Murder is a crime in Ferelden no matter who commits the act. Murdering a high-ranking noble is treason. I met your father, and you're right, I killed him. He deserved it."

"You're not Fereldan," he said. "You're a Marcher. Why should you care what happens here?"

_Bright boy, this one. Is it my accent that gave me away?_

"My nationality is irrelevant. I'm a Grey Warden."

"I know all about you. And if you really want to know why I came back, I was planning to kill you. But once I saw my home and the damage that had been done to it, all I wanted was to recover a few personal items and leave Ferelden for good."

"Where were you when your father killed the Couslands?"

"I was in the Free Marches, serving in the army. Stationed out of Kirkwall."

Seneschal Varel walked in on our conversation. "I see you've met our prisoner. Has he told you anything?"

"He has, and I've decided what we'll do with him," I answered. "Prepare for another joining, please."

"What? No! Absolutely not!" Nathaniel protested. "I'd rather hang."

"That's not your choice to make," I reminded him.

"So now you expect me to serve you? Work for you? Follow your orders as if nothing happened, as if you didn't murder my father?"

"Your father was the murderer, not I," I said, losing my patience with his insolence. "All I did was bring justice down on his head. If you live through the joining, you'll get to meet one of Bryce Cousland's sons—one that your father and his men didn't get to kill—and you can hear his version of how his home was invaded and his family killed. He was there, and he saw what really happened, not some stories handed down by sympathetic friends."

That shut him up for the time being. He survived the joining, as I'd hoped he would. He was going to be a handful, and I expected some friction between him and Aiden, but I trusted that they would be able to put the past behind them and work together. Maybe I was naïve, but I hoped for the best under the worst of circumstances. I now had a mage and a templar, and the sons of Howe and Cousland. Things were going to be interesting…

* * *

"Howe? You recruited a _Howe_? You know what that bastard did to my family! What were you thinking, Winter?" Aiden wasn't taking the news as well as Winter had hoped.

"This isn't Rendon Howe, and Nathaniel wasn't even in Ferelden when his father turned traitor," she explained. "He had nothing to do with it. Give him a chance, Aiden."

"If I could just leave… If I could quit the wardens today…" he stammered in his rage.

"Aiden, please," she entreated. "Trust me in this, as you've always trusted my judgment. It was the right thing to do. Give Nathaniel a wide berth if you must. I'll take one of you on missions and leave the other at the keep for a while, until the two of you can come to terms with things. But don't declare him your mortal enemy based on what his father did."

He flopped heavily into a chair. How could she have done it, knowing what she knew about Rendon Howe? For Andraste's sake, she had spoken to Howe before they killed him. She knew the kind of vindictive, vile, manipulative arse he was, even to the moment of his death. Did she really believe his son was oblivious to everything his father was and did?

Maybe the younger Howe didn't know the kind of beast his father had become, and maybe he did. As the saying went, only time would tell. But if he saw an opportunity to put an arrow through the little bastard's heart, he would be a fool not to take it.

He huffed out a frustrated sigh. "Fine, Winter. Make every criminal in Ferelden a warden if you must. Just don't expect me to like it or to agree with you."

"I'm sorry…"

"Not sorry enough," he cut her off, and stormed out of her suite.

* * *

The tension between Aiden and Nathaniel was worse than I'd anticipated. Aiden was openly hostile to him, and Nathaniel was defensive and arrogant. It was a disaster. Maybe I should have hung him and been done with it.

_No. It was the right decision to conscript him. Give them time._

I did as I promised, leaving one behind and taking the other on missions. We found black granite for the stonemason Voldrik, lyrium sand for his brother Dworkin's explosives, and ore deposits for Wade. Aiden accompanied me on this trip to the Wending Wood. We met up with an elven mage who tried several times to kill us. I'd hoped to recruit her because of her strong offensive magic spells, but she was a homicidal maniac on her best days. Aiden said he regretted putting down such an attractive woman (what was it with him and crazy apostates?), but while I kept her distracted with insults and threats, he sailed an arrow her way and into her head.

Nathaniel went with me to Blackmarsh, an eerie place that lived up to its name. He was an archer with skills almost as good as Aiden's, and he probably saved my life several times while we battled demons, corrupted animals, and another talking darkspawn. We were joined by Justice, a spirit trapped outside the Fade and cast into the body of a slain Grey Warden we'd been seeking. The warden already had the taint, having been through his joining some time ago. Justice wasn't sure about the Grey Warden business, but he was a warrior who handled a greatsword with impressive strength and expertise. And so our number increased to seven wardens. Not bad for my first five weeks.

The constant bickering within the party drove my anxiety level up, which in turn kept me sick to my stomach day and night. Oftentimes I'd lose a full night's sleep from retching and dry heaves that made my ribs feel as if they would snap if my insides lurched just once more.

Something was wrong with me, and it wasn't getting better. Whatever happened when I slew the archdemon was likely killing me very slowly. If that were so, I needed to know it right away. In whatever time I had left, I would have to spend it preparing Aiden to take command until a new warden-commander was brought in from elsewhere or appointed by the king.

I couldn't pretend I was fine any more. I needed to see Anders.

* * *

"What are your symptoms?" Anders asked. She didn't appear sick. He detected no fever or plague or illness of any kind. She was healthy.

"Nausea, mostly. I can't bear the smell of food, or sometimes even the scent of soap gags me. And horses… Maker, I've thrown up around horses. I never noticed before how badly they stink. I can't sleep. And look at me—" she pulled the front of her flexible dragonskin armor away from her body, "I've lost so much weight that my armor hangs off me like a shroud." She gave a bitter laugh. "That's an ironic comparison, isn't it?"

Anders was a healer by nature and by talent. He felt compassion for her. She wasn't aware of what was happening to her body, and though she didn't express it, he sensed she was afraid. "How long has this been going on?"

"Since I awoke from the coma."

"And you didn't rest as I recommended, did you? Not that it would have changed anything."

"Is that so? I would have been sick no matter what?"

"Exactly," he answered. "But Winter, you're not _sick_. You're perfectly healthy."

"I certainly _feel_ sick," she snapped. She was irritable, which was also normal. "Or are you saying this is my imagination?"

"Not at all," he answered.

"Why in oblivion are you smiling? Do you take pleasure in others' suffering?"

"No, and I never have," he replied sincerely. He was a man of exceptional compassion when it came to sickness and suffering, and he was proud of his healing gift. "But you're not sick, Winter. You're pregnant, and what you're experiencing is the normal, natural phenomenon known as morning sickness. You should be past it in another couple of weeks or so."

"That's not funny, Anders."

"It wasn't a joke. You _are_ pregnant. About ten weeks pregnant, I would say. Do you want to know if it's a boy or a girl?"

She turned from him, flung the door open and rushed out, almost slamming into Aiden in her rush to escape.

Aiden poked his head in Anders' room. "Andraste's smoking ashes, man, what did you do to her?"

"Nothing!" Anders protested. "She's angry with me but it's not _my_ fault she's pregnant."

"Pregnant?" Aiden repeated. "I should have known…"

"Is it yours? Damn, I didn't know. I should have let her tell you herself. Aiden, wait!"

* * *

Pregnant. I was pregnant. On that night before we left Redcliffe Castle for the battle of Denerim, I conceived a child. Teagan's child.

"Maker, how am I going to tell him this? Should I tell him? Or should I leave Ferelden and go to another country where no one knows me?"

I felt lost, alone, and frightened. I'd faced down demons, darkspawn, dragons, and every manner of evil creature without fear. It was easy because I didn't care one way or another if I lived or died. But this was different. The thought of becoming a mother and passing my tainted blood to an innocent child terrified me.

"I can't have a child," I whispered. What was the alternative? Was there an alternative to be had?

_No, there isn't. Unless I'm injured or killed, I'm going to give birth in less than seven months. Should I leave, and tell no one why or where I'm going? Word would get out. Anders knows. He isn't the best at keeping secrets. _

_And if I left, would that be fair to Teagan? It's not just _my_ baby. Doesn't he have the right to know I'm carrying his child? Whether or not he wants to be a father, the fact remains that the child is his. _

My thoughts were running a crazy cycle of what-if's. I had all questions and not a single answer. The last thing I expected to hear from Anders was that I was pregnant, but now that I thought on it, I should have guessed as much. The symptoms were obvious.

Only once since I arrived in Ferelden had I allowed myself the luxury of crying. If ever there was a time to indulge myself, this was it. I crouched in a corner of my room, rested my head on my folded arms, and wept until I had no more tears to cry.

That night, when I had literally cried myself to sleep, I dreamt of Morrigan. She looked different, as dream-people often do, but I knew it was she. Her voice and its withering tone hadn't changed or mellowed with death. In the dream, she knew I was pregnant. She'd known all along.

"I have been waiting for you to find out you were with child. It took you long enough to acknowledge the truth. But you always were one to deny the obvious."

"What do you want from me?" I asked her. My manner was defiant and cold. Why not? What could she do to me? It was only a dream. The real Morrigan died in Denerim ten weeks ago.

"Now that you know of it," she said, "we need to talk…"

Before she could elaborate, her image flickered out and her voice was silenced. I slept through the rest of the night untroubled by voices, images, or the ghosts of old rivals.

* * *

Bryant awoke from a deep slumber, instantly on his guard. He'd been propelled from a supine position to sitting upright, as if by the Maker's invisible hand. His keen senses recognized the presence of aberrant magic or demonic spirits nearby.

The warden-commander's suite was on the other side of the wall facing him. She was no mage and she was rightly reputed to oppose all forms of evil; she was not the cause of the disturbance. But he was sure the dark force was in her room.

He swung his legs over the edge of his bed, reached for his greatsword, and stepped out into the hallway. No one was about at this hour. As he neared her door he heard a voice. It was a female, but it wasn't the warden-commander speaking. Whoever or whatever it was, it emanated evil and ill intent. He'd encountered the five known types of demon: pride, lust, hunger, rage, and sloth. The being in the warden-commander's room was none of those, but it had characteristics of each.

He employed his templar ability to dispel magic and said, quietly but authoritatively, "Begone, spirit," with a wave of his hand that would disrupt any spellcasting or enchantment. The voice stopped; the atmosphere cleared. Bryant hesitantly opened Winter's door and peeked inside to make sure she was unharmed. She lay in her bed, curled up and covered in a heavy quilt. He listened for the sound of her breathing. It was deep and even. Once he was satisfied she was safe and had suffered no harm, he lingered in the hallway a while until he was confident the spirit wouldn't return. When he went back to his room, he was fully awake. He passed the remainder of the night restlessly.

* * *

So Winter was pregnant. How hadn't he figured it out? How hadn't _she_? Her lover, the venerable Arl Teagan of Redcliffe, had to be the father. Since Aiden had known her, Winter hadn't given any other man a second glance, much less shown romantic interest. Alistair was a possible exception, but even then, as hard as he tried to get those two together, she held back.

_Smart girl. She's a better judge of character than I was._

Aiden smiled to himself. The old fellow Teagan evidently still had some spark. Enough spark to attract a beautiful and much younger woman like Winter, enough to entice her into his bed, and enough to turn his pragmatic friend and leader into a lovesick girl who occasionally hummed, smiled for no apparent reason, and daydreamed. Before the war, she hadn't evinced any kind of behavior like that.

He rather liked the idea of Winter having a baby. He could be like an uncle, since they were such close friends and she had no relatives. Maybe she would have a son. Since the loss of his own nephew Oren, he missed being the favorite uncle.

He had to double back and straighten out Anders' incorrect assumption that he was the baby's father. It was an understandable mistake. He and Winter were close, and Anders wasn't the first to assume they were involved. If things had been different… Well, no matter. Things were fine as they were.

He hoped she would take him along to Redcliffe when she gave the old boy the news that he was going to be a father. It might be amusing to see his reaction to becoming a father when he was old enough to be a grandfather. What was it about those Guerrin men? Eamon was an old guy when he had his son, and now Teagan was following in his footsteps. Maybe all the Guerrin offspring were made with old seed.

He fell asleep with that somewhat rude but entertaining thought on his mind.


	18. Of Wardens and Witches

Of Wardens and Witches

Part 1 – It's All Fun and Games…

* * *

There was no sense in putting off the inevitable. Teagan had to be told about the pregnancy. I sent him a message telling him I needed to speak with him, and as soon as my duties allowed for a few days away from Amaranthine, I would visit him in Redcliffe.

In his reply, he offered to come to the Vigil. This prompted me to send a second letter. Things were hectic here, I wrote, and I needed a couple of weeks to oversee the completion of repairs on the keep. I kept the tone of the letter upbeat and optimistic—things were going well, we were ahead of schedule, I had an excellent staff, and so on—but my work often took me to the city of Amaranthine as well as around the arling, and there would be too many interruptions for a proper visit. It would be best if we met in Redcliffe. What I _didn't_ tell him was that it wasn't safe at the Vigil.

The workers had cleared the tunnel in the basement, and as we suspected, it led to the Deep Roads. We killed scores of darkspawn, and while we were down in the tunnels, we rescued a female member of the Legion of the Dead—an elite group of dwarven fighters. The rogue's name was Sigrun, and she had a surprisingly cheerful outlook for a woman destined, and committed, to die in battle. She joined with us and helped us clear the tunnels as far as we could go.

We came to a barrier designed to keep darkspawn out but it was never completed. The darkspawn found it, and that was their ingress to the Vigil. I had Voldrik come down and take a look at the barrier. The assembly consisted of three sets of doors, forged of brass and veridium by master dwarven smiths. The only thing lacking was to connect the locking mechanism, which Voldrik did. The barrier, he said, should last a decade or more. That was good enough for me.

I spent the next couple of weeks finishing the repairs and improvements to the Vigil. The holes in the walls were repaired and the entire wall reinforced. The shattered ballistae were replaced with new, more powerful ones. Master Wade outfitted the troops with better armor and arms than they'd ever owned. Overall, the Vigil was as strong as it could be. We still lacked the number of wardens I'd hoped to have by now, but I hadn't given up looking for recruits. Sigrun was happy to fight alongside us, but she drew the line at becoming a Grey Warden. She had one allegiance, she said, and though we had the same goals, she wanted her life, and her death, simple. I couldn't argue with that.

Oghren was happy to have Sigrun around. She was one of his own, from the warrior caste as he was, and best of all, she was of the opposite sex. His former girlfriend Felsi had visited once, and their conversation ended with a breakup. She took their child, refusing to tell Oghren if she'd had a boy or a girl, and left. Oghren was indifferent. Their breakup was one thing, but for him to have no interest in his own child didn't make him too popular. Only Sigrun acted like it was nothing, and we soon found out why. She and Oghren were having an affair, and she didn't want the complication of her lover's ex or his kid to interfere with their relationship.

"Is that a dwarven thing?" Aiden asked, his annoyance coming through loud and clear. "This isn't the first time we've run across deadbeat dwarf dads. Remember Zerlinda in Orzammar? Her son's father couldn't be bothered with his kid either. I don't understand people like that."

"Neither do I," I agreed. "I expected Sigrun to be more compassionate, but I guess when one is committed to dying for their cause, the living don't have as much value. Or maybe, as you said, it's just a dwarven thing. Their caste system doesn't help, either."

"Have I told you how much I dislike that dwarf?"

"Many times." I gestured to the other wardens. "And you're in good company."

"Remind me why we keep him around. There's no blight, the war ended three months ago, and the darkspawn have been eradicated here for the time being. Can't you send him off?"

I understood his frustration, but I couldn't simply send a warden away without cause. Oghren was an arse. He was still the coarse, crude, offensive little man he'd always been. Being a disgusting person and annoying one's fellow wardens wasn't considered cause enough for dismissal. (I'd never heard of a warden being dismissed, for that matter.) Like him or not, we were stuck with him. On the bright side, Sigrun kept him occupied in our down time.

With the important business out of the way, it was time for that trip to Redcliffe. I took Aiden, Anders, Bryant, and Oghren along. The first three had worked hard and were due for a furlough. Oghren was brought to keep him out of everyone else's way. Mhairi was assigned to take Justice, Nathaniel, and Sigrun on a scouting mission, to follow up on a lead given by a couple of hunters. Their map might lead us to whoever or whatever was responsible for the attack against the Vigil. She was not to take action, only to gather what information she could and report to me upon my return. It was an important mission; I couldn't have Oghren screwing it up if he was too focused on Sigrun to keep his mind on his task.

The trip from Amaranthine to Redcliffe would take five full days. We were on foot and hadn't brought enough provisions, assuming we'd pick up food along the way. Our route didn't take us through any villages, though, and by the third day our food had run out.

"Whose bonehead idea was it to bring so little food? How hard is it to remember that we need to eat?" Oghren complained.

"It was my bonehead idea," I answered. "You _are_ aware of how much five days' worth of food for five people would weigh, aren't you? Did you want to carry it? Because if so, you could have told me. No one would have denied you the privilege of being the pack animal."

"No I didn't want to carry any more than I already have," he snapped. He turned to Anders. "Aren't you mages supposed to be able to do some magic stuff and make animals appear?"

Anders was nonplussed. "Yes, many mages can conjure animals. I have that ability."

"Well, what can you conjure? How about a couple dozen nugs?"

"I can't make a nug," Anders said, still confused as to where the conversation was leading.

"You're no good for nuthin," Oghren grumbled. "You said you can make an animal, right? So go ahead, conjure something."

"I can make a wolf or a bear. I can't see how it's needed, but if you want…"

"I don't like wolf. Too tough and stringy, and the meat smells funny. Bear sounds tasty though, whatever that is. Conjure a bear."

Anders gaped at him in disbelief. "Oghren, it's a _spirit_ bear."

"So what?" Oghren shrugged. "If you cook it right, I'm sure spirit bear is as good as… as any other kind of bear."

Aiden and Bryant looked away to hide their smiles. Anders did an admirable job of keeping a straight face. "Well, I can conjure it, but spirit bears don't usually appear right where you want them. They have to be hunted."

"Ohh, like women, right? You have to woo them before they give up the goods?"

"Something like that," Anders said.

Aiden jumped in. "Tell you what, Anders. You conjure that spirit bear, and I'll go hunt it for us. Shouldn't be too hard to track."

And so they did. Anders performed a bogus spell, and Aiden and Bryant went out to hunt. They found an old halla, too feeble to keep up with its herd, in a patch of woods and killed it, skinned it, and brought it back to camp.

"One spirit bear, as requested," Aiden announced. Bryant volunteered to cook it.

"That makes sense," Oghren said. "Old Bryant here can probably cook all kinds of spirit animals that them magic guys conjure."

Bryant played along beautifully. "If it were a younger… spirit bear… I could have roasted it on a spit. But since this is a mature one, I'll have to stew it."

"Hey, as long as it's meat, I'll be happy. Now if you folks will excuse me, I'm going go get sodding drunk before dinner." He found a cozy nook and settled in with his wineskin.

Bryant asked, "Exactly what is he drinking? That skin never gets empty, but he drinks all the time. We haven't stopped to buy supplies."

Aiden answered, "You don't want to know, Bryant. We had this discussion months back, and we came to a conclusion that made our stomachs turn."

Bryant stopped what he was doing. His hands froze in mid-chop. His expression went from questioning to one of total disgust. "You're joking. This is another joke like the spirit bear thing, right? Surely nobody would… Not even someone like Oghren?"

"If you have a better explanation, I'd like to hear it," Anders said. "The skin isn't self-replenishing. And it explains why he always smells like dried piss."

"Maker…" Bryant looked like he was going to throw up. We all understood. Anders wasn't there when we found Oghren or when Zev and Alistair questioned him about his endless supply of ale, but he'd heard the story.

Bryant was a talented cook. The stew was excellent. "You can cook for me any time," I said to him. "That was without a doubt the finest spirit bear I've ever had."

He gave a small bow and a smile of thanks. "Any time you wish, Warden-Commander."

Oghren paused his slurping, smacking, and belching long enough to swallow a mouthful of stew and slur, "Wait til I tell ol' Siggy that I had spirit bear. Is she ever gonna be jealous! We never get to have bear in Orzammar."

"I'm not surprised," Aiden smiled. "They're rare."

"Rare? Mine wasn't rare. It was cooked just right. Good on ya, Templar."

* * *

Part 2 - …Until Somebody Gets Hurt

Redcliffe Castle came into view, and my stomach knotted up with nerves. The daily nausea had passed, as Anders predicted it would. But facing Teagan and telling him about the pregnancy made me apprehensive. My mind played out a variety of scenarios. In one, he was angry that I'd been so careless. In another, he accused me of seducing him just to get pregnant. In still another, he wanted nothing to do with the child. And my favorite… he denied the child was his.

My legs trembled like rubber when I climbed the castle steps. The door looked miles away, but when I put my foot on the first step, it seemed the door rushed to meet me.

"What's wrong?" Aiden whispered. "Are you sick again?"

"I'm fine," I lied.

"It's going to be alright, you know."

I could have played innocent, but why bother? Aiden was terrible at hiding his feelings or keeping secrets (much like Anders, apparently). I could see in his eyes that he already knew the truth, and he knew why I'd come here.

The doors opened before we reached the landing, and the castle steward welcomed us in. "The arl will be with you momentarily," he said. "Please follow me." He brought us to the sitting room. The men found seats around a table, and I paced the floor.

"Do you think the arl will be upset if we get into his wine?" Anders asked, indicating a rack of bottles against the wall.

"Not in the least," Teagan answered from the doorway. "Please make yourselves at home."

"You heard the man," Oghren said enthusiastically. "Uncork a bottle, magey boy."

Teagan knew Aiden and he'd seen Anders before, but not the others. He maintained a more formal mien in front of these strangers. He welcomed us to Redcliffe, asked how long we'd be staying, and offered us his typical hospitality by having rooms and a meal prepared for us.

"You asked to meet with me?" he asked. "Did you wish a private audience?"

"Yes, if you please," I answered, keeping up appearances. He led me toward the great hall.

Oghren blurted out, "Oooohhh, a private meeting. You know what that means. Heh heh heh." The others tried to hush him, but he only talked louder and his conversation became cruder. "Go get em, Warden-Commander! Maybe the good arl can work some of that sass out of you."

I groaned. "I'm so sorry. He's not quite as bad sober, but he hasn't been sober since we left Amaranthine."

"Not to worry, my dear," Teagan answered. "I'm embarrassed for you, not for myself. And truth be told, I rather like his idea."

I looked around the wide open great hall. "Do you think we can go some place less… cavernous? This is a private matter and I don't want it echoing around the castle."

"Of course. I've turned Connor's old room into my study. Let's go there." We started for the stairs to the second floor and he asked, "Is everything alright? You're beginning to worry me with all this secrecy."

"Everything's fine," I said, hoping it _would_ be fine after I'd done talking with him. "Nothing to worry about. I just need to talk to you."

When we were settled in his study, sitting across from each other at a small table, he prompted me, "So tell me, love, what's this all about? You look troubled."

"I suppose I am. There are some… unexpected developments…"

_Unexpected? Oh, sure. What we did couldn't possibly lead to pregnancy…_

"What is it? Don't be hesitant. You can tell me anything."

"Please don't be upset, but… I'm pregnant."

He stopped, blinked, brought his hands up to his face. I heard him let out a long sigh, then he lowered his hands and grasped mine. "Woman, you had me so worried! I thought you'd suffered ill effects from the war or you'd gotten injured in Amaranthine. But…pregnant! How wonderful!"

"You're not angry, then?"

"Angry?" he laughed. "How could I be? The woman I adore is carrying my baby. Could there be any more delightful news than this?" He stood and pulled me to my feet. "I love you, Winter, in case you've forgotten." He gathered me into an embrace. "Only one thing could make me happier than I am now. Have you considered my proposal? I want you to be my wife."

Truthfully, I _hadn't_ given it much thought. I hadn't given it _any_ thought. In light of our present circumstances, marriage made sense. But because I was a Grey Warden, it made no sense to marry, only to be called out whenever darkspawn appeared.

"I still have things to do in Amaranthine," I answered lamely. "I might be gone for a while longer."

"My love, you're not going to be able to carry out your duties much longer. Not without endangering yourself and our baby. You're going to have to resign your post eventually… sooner rather than later."

I knew this. I knew it, but my stubbornness threw me into denial. Irrational denial. "I don't know about that. I'm sure I can take a short break and have the baby, then resume my post…" Even as I was saying the words, I knew I sounded like an idiot. He smiled indulgently and let me ramble. "Alright, yes, I'll have to resign my post. But not right away."

"Avoiding the question, are you?"

"No. Yes. No. I don't know what to say."

"So I see." He dropped the subject for now and tilted my chin up, kissing me with the passion I'd come to crave. "I've missed you," he whispered against my lips.

"Me too," I whispered back.

"Come to my suite?"

"Oh yes."

* * *

"They've been gone a long time," Oghren remarked. "That guy must have some real stamina." He made lewd gestures that none of his companions wanted to see.

"You're disgusting, dwarf," Bryant said.

"I know," Oghren grinned.

"Not to belabor the point," Anders said, "but they really have been gone a long time. Do you suppose she's alright?"

Aiden rolled his eyes. "What do you think, Anders? Were you that sheltered in the tower?"

"Supposedly," Bryant answered for him. "But not likely."

"I know what we oughta do," Oghren said. "We oughta go up there and listen at the door."

"Why would we want to do that?" Anders asked. "It's an invasion of her privacy."

"We'd want to do that cuz it would be fun to listen," the dwarf leered.

"It's wrong." Anders was adamant.

"It's sexyyyyy," Oghren taunted.

"Absolutely not," Bryant put in.

"No," Aiden insisted, "and that's final. No more discussion of it."

* * *

I stretched like a lazy cat, sated and happy and so completely in love that I thought I must be dreaming. I had dozed off for a bit, tired from my long trip and, naturally, from my most recent exertions. Tired and elated. I looked over at my beloved. He was sleeping soundly. It would be a shame to wake him.

I slid out of bed and found my clothes. They were all over the room, in a trail that started from the door and ended at the bed. As quietly as I could, I dressed and tried to smooth my hair so it didn't look like I'd been in a windstorm. I held my boots in my hand so I wouldn't make noise clomping about, and slowly opened the door, eased out of the room, and closed the door behind me. When I turned around, my companions were sitting on a bench in the hallway.

_What in the Maker's name are they doing up here? They're supposed to be downstairs!_

"Have you ever heard such a commotion?" Anders asked Aiden.

"Not since Oghreh slobbered down that last meal of bear stew," Aiden answered him.

"_Spirit_ bear," Oghren chimed in. "Almost as good as... you know." He winked and made a crude gesture with his hands.

"Do you think the old boy is still alive in there?" This was Aiden, of course.

"Not from the sounds I heard," Anders replied. "All those grunts and groans and shouts and whatnot… I think he might have had a heart attack or something."

"How about the part where she sounded like a wolf howling at the moon?" Oghren snickered. He made a howling wolf sound to illustrate his description.

"That wasn't her. It was _him_." This was Anders' input.

"No kidding? The lucky bastard. You're a firebrand, Winter. I'm jealous." It was Aiden again.

I was horrified. Mortified. Frozen to the spot with my boots in my hand, my hair a mess, my clothes askew. I could feel the hot flush in my cheeks.

"You … That's not… You couldn't have… You didn't really…" I couldn't get a sentence together. "Did you hear… sounds?"

Aiden, Anders, and Oghren nodded simultaneously, like three puppets attached to one string. I looked to Bryant. He wouldn't lie. Those three would, in a trice. He only gave me a sympathetic half-smile and a half-shrug.

It was more than I could take. I fled back into Teagan's suite and flopped in a chair, set my boots down and covered my face with my hands. I'd never been so humiliated, and those louts were laughing it up at my expense. How could I look any of them in the eye? How was I supposed to go back to the Vigil and lead these men after this? They'd never take me seriously again, and I guess I couldn't blame them. They weren't likely to forget the incident. Ever.

Were they telling the truth? I didn't want to think so, but even the reserved Bryant didn't deny it. I'd been caught up in passion, naturally, but… Was I really so…wanton?

_Andraste's blood, I'll never live this one down. Why did I bring them with me anyway?_

"Darling, are you upset?" Teagan's sleepy voice reached through to me. I thought I could hide it from him, but I was too distressed to behave as if everything was alright. He opened his arms and I stumbled into his embrace, burying my face in his bare shoulder. He soothed me with, "I hear women are emotional during pregnancy. That's all it is, love." I nodded and burrowed closer to him, trying to hide under him or under the bed or beneath the stone floor, if it were possible.

* * *

Bryant frowned at the other wardens and spoke in a hushed tone. "I only agreed to this because you said it was a _little_ joke. You humiliated her. That was cruel."

"Yeah, well, if you felt so bad about it, why didn't you tell her the truth?" Oghren challenged. "You could have put a stop to it, but you played along."

"I… have no excuse, but I'm going to apologize to her at my first opportunity."

"It wasn't _that_ bad, was it?" Anders asked.

"Yeah, it was," Aiden sighed. "We went too far. She was really upset."

"Okay, so we should make this right. Who wants to knock on the door?" Anders asked.

Nobody volunteered. They got up, one by one, and went back downstairs to the sitting room. Three of the four felt the weight of guilt. Oghren still thought it was the best prank he'd played on anyone in years.

Shortly afterwards, their host came into the room and closed the door behind him. He sat at the table with them and addressed them calmly and quietly, but in a reproachful tone.

"Wardens, I enjoy a good joke or prank as much as the next man. I heard what you said to Winter outside my door, and that was _not_ a good joke. It was cruel, thoughtless, and heartless. How any of you found humor in someone else's humiliation is beyond my comprehension. That woman is more than just your superior. She is the woman I love, the woman I plan to marry, and she is carrying our child. _My_ child. I will not have her treated with disrespect in my home. You four are no longer welcome here. Please see yourselves out. You can report back to Vigil's Keep, or you can go to oblivion. I'll have my knights escort the warden-commander to the Vigil. Good day." He rose and walked to the study door, opening it and standing by it, waiting for them to leave. The steward awaited them beyond him, at the hall leading to the castle exit.

Three shame-faced wardens shuffled out silently, embarrassed and contrite, followed by a drunken dwarf who wondered what all the fuss was about.

* * *

"You sent my men away? Why? Teagan, I'm their commander, not you. How could you take it upon yourself to do that?"

I'd fallen asleep in Teagan's arms. When I woke, he was gone and the room was quiet, softly lit by a candle on the dresser. It was past sunset, well past time for me to get up and…

The memory of my companions' rude jesting came rushing back. I was mortified all over again.

I couldn't avoid them forever, so it seemed best to get it over with. Now that I had regained some of my composure—though not much of my dignity—they were in for a stern reprimand. I went to the sitting room and found them gone. Teagan was alone, sitting at the table brooding. He told me he had thrown them out. They'd been gone for about five hours.

Teagan was still angry with them. "I couldn't bear to look at their faces after what they'd done. Forgive me for undermining your authority. That wasn't my intent. But I could not have them under my roof after the way they treated you. If I'd let them stay, it would have been as if I approved of their brutish humor."

It was a bit of an overstatement, but I understood. I didn't care for his interference, but I appreciated his protectiveness. My guys were out of line, _way_ out of line. Their joke not only affected me, but it insulted their host—a ranking noble and a gentleman. What were they thinking? They could be cheeky, and too often their jokes were bawdy, but I'd never known them to be so juvenile. Even Bryant was a part of it, of all people! Teagan thought they owed me an apology; I felt they owed him one.

"I need to get back to the Vigil and take care of this," I said.

"No. You should let them stew a while and think about their actions, and the consequences," he replied. "They aren't little boys, though they acted like spoiled brats. They can make it back on their own. Besides, they're on foot and you'll be on horseback. You'd arrive days ahead of them. I'm hoping you will take a few days off, away from them, and rest here. You look as if you haven't been eating or sleeping well."

That much was true. The morning sickness had drained me of energy, and I was just starting to get it back. I was still too thin but _that_ would change soon enough. As for sleep, he was right on that score. I hadn't slept well in weeks.

He gave a list of reasons why I should stay. I gave my reasons why I ought to go. In the end, I relented. He was right; I was on edge, gullible enough to fall for their prank, and too emotional to be as objective as I ought in my position. Some rest would do me good. He sealed it with his suggestion that we go to Rainesfere.

"I've been putting it off, but I need to meet with the nobles and try to persuade them to elect a new bann. I can handle the workload; Rainesfere is virtually problem-free. But it would be in their best interests if their bann lived among them." He didn't seem willing to give up the post.

"I disagree," I said. "The king lives in Denerim. He can't be everywhere at once, but he rules the whole country. How is that so different?"

"True enough," he agreed. "I owe it to them to put the idea forward, but I won't push for it."

* * *

Part 3 – Tears of a Clown

Eamon was worried for his king. King Alistair had become irate and distant, uninterested in the affairs of state, and when he wasn't in a temper, he was depressed. He started drinking heavily, and most days he was drunk from morning until he passed out in the evening. It happened so suddenly that Eamon was at a loss as to what could have turned the cheerful, agreeable, fun-loving young man into a surly sot. His enemies were dead, the country was recovering from the war, relations with Orlais were stable, and Ferelden faced no real threat aside from the problem at Vigil's Keep, which the new warden-commander was well able to handle.

It went from bad to disastrous when Eamon approached the king about a small matter. Alistair was drunk, and he was rambling about a 'taint' and something about a woman… or two women? His slur was so pronounced that Eamon sometimes had trouble understanding his words, much less what he was going on about. Some things came out clearly, however.

"I loved her. D'you know I wuzz…" he paused to hiccup, "…going to ass cur t'be my queen? She would've made a good queen. But the witch, that sneaky bitch-witch…" More hiccup-burp sounds. He grew agitated. "…_sheee_ had to have a demon baby. And then she ruined everything. And _then_ I killed her. And _it_." Eamon listened, but he had difficulty connecting the story. Alistair took another long pull from his bottle of Maker-knew-what liquor. "I'm a Grey Warden, d'joo hear? Like Duncan. Like Riordan. They're both dead. Not from the taint, but that'll kill you like this." He tried to snap but lacked coordination to perform the simple act. "We prob'ly couldn't have an heir. B'cuz we're both wardens." His countenance crumpled and he looked as if he were going to cry. "D'you know how a Grey Warn gets to be a Grey? They… don't tell no one cuz issa real big secret…" He lowered his voice to a loud, hoarse whisper. "With darkspawn blood." He nodded. "Thass right. They drink the taint. I did. She did too." His mood changed again, from conspiratorial back to mournful. Eamon felt like he was watching a one-man play. "She could die out there, Unc'a Meemon. Darkspawn. That talk. I sent her there. If she dies…"

"Your Majesty," Eamon interjected gently, so as not to distress the king further, "are you speaking of the warden-commander?"

"Don't talk to me about her!" Alistair roared. "Don't mention her name! She was mine, but she left. You saw her! She blamed me like it was _my_ fault…" He threw his bottle against the wall. "Go! Get out of here! Stop hounding me! Maker curse you all!"

Eamon retreated from the room. It was a recurring theme. The king would get drunk, get agitated, go through the entire gamut of human emotions, pass out, then wake with a hangover and a lot of apologies, remembering that he'd behaved badly but recalling nothing he'd said.

The king's rant was a jumble, but Eamon gathered that he had fallen in love with the warden-commander and that the girl didn't return his affection. As for the secrets he'd spilled about Grey Wardens, Eamon was appalled and humbled. He'd never let on what he knew, but he gained a deeper respect for the wardens and their sacrifice.

His immediate concern was how to get the king to snap out of his depression and return to the man he'd been before… whatever it was that caused his moodiness. Now that he pondered it, the problem started the day the warden-commander came to give her report. They'd had words, he knew that much. He could hear their raised, angry voices. After she left, the king became sullen and he started drinking.

Maker's blood, why didn't he figure it out sooner? In truth, there wasn't much he could do about it. If the girl didn't love him, she couldn't be forced into it. Eamon himself had loved and lost, and in a way far more jarring than finding out the object of a crush didn't feel the same way about him. He'd gotten past it, but not without pain, and only with fierce determination to move on. In matters of the heart, Alistair was still a child. He didn't know how to handle a woman's rejection.

Maybe the king could use a few days of privacy. And sobriety. There wasn't much he could do about Alistair's drinking but he could leave the castle for a while. Eamon needed to get away for his own sake. The past weeks had been difficult, to put it mildly, and he was too old for such goings-on. He watched Alistair destroying himself, and it aged Eamon a decade to do so.

He wrote the king a blunt message and left it at his bedside. He was going to Redcliffe for a few days. When he returned, if the king didn't want him as chancellor or regent (his title changed with Alistair's moods), he would leave and go back to his old home.

He missed his castle and his people, and the peace he'd enjoyed as an arl. It was Teagan's arling now, and Redcliffe was thriving under his younger brother's rule. Eamon looked forward to a visit with him. Maybe Teagan could offer some suggestion as to what he could do to help the king, or advise him to leave the king's service if it came to that. Eamon was the diplomat, but Teagan was the less emotional, more sensible member of the family.

* * *

Alistair woke with a raging headache and a sour taste in his mouth. His stomach felt like it was going to reject its contents. The light from the parted drapes stabbed into his eyes like needles. This was how he woke every morning. He was tired of it. Tired of the sickness, the sorrow, and the pain. He just needed something to help him through it.

He sat up and held his aching head in his hands. No healer could cure a hangover. Well, they _could_, but he didn't want mages in his home. Anyway, he'd have another hangover tomorrow, and the next day, and the following… Unless he made up his mind to stop drinking. What good was it? He still missed her, the heartache was still with him whether he was drunk or sober, and he was probably making an arse of himself in front of Eamon—a man he'd respected all his life.

He spied a message on the bedside table. When his eyes adjusted to the light, he read it. Eamon had left for Redcliffe. He was ready to resign his position in the court if the king wanted him out. The underlying tone of the message was that Eamon _wanted_ to leave. He wasn't able to help the king and he couldn't sit by and watch him destroy himself.

"Your Majesty,

"I have left for Redcliffe and expect to be gone for ten days. In my absence, my assistant will see to your needs. I trust you will find his work satisfactory, as I do.

"I am deeply concerned for your welfare, Sire. Specifically, your disregard for the country and her people, and your recklessness with your own health. At the risk of sounding impertinent, as your advisor I feel it is my duty to say that you put Ferelden at risk. Our armies stand idle without a commander. The banns have no one to answer their questions or settle disputes. While you tend to your personal issues with drunkenness, our country is without leadership.

"Perhaps Your Majesty should consider appointing another, more influential and trusted person as regent and advisor. You no longer listen to my counsel; therefore I feel I have no place in your court. Upon my return to Denerim, I will be prepared to tender my resignation or receive your dismissal, as you see fit.

"You will have my support, Majesty, but I cannot remain in the castle and watch you kill yourself with drink. I say this with a heavy heart, as your former guardian and as your friend.

"May the Maker guide you,

Eamon Guerrin"

Alistair set the letter down. After a few minutes of thought, he picked it up and read it again. Eamon was right in everything he'd said. He was a terrible king, wrapped up in his personal heartache, neglecting his duty. As a templar and a Grey Warden, duty was foremost. It was _everything_, with all other considerations secondary. Why should he change now, when he had taken on the most significant role of his life? Did he want history to record his rule as that of an incompetent drunkard and a failure?

He rose from bed, suffering the nausea and aches, and pushing himself to function despite his discomfort. It had been self-inflicted and he deserved to feel like crap. He summoned the servants to bring him water for a bath. Once he'd gotten himself cleaned up and fully awake, he would take command, as he'd done at the start of his reign. He made up his mind to put aside his personal pain and to put Ferelden first.

He didn't want to lose Eamon as his regent. If he had lost someone dear to him along the way, that was how it must be. He just hoped he could maintain this resolve the next time he saw her.

"Maker guide you, Winter. I'll love you always," he whispered to the empty room.

* * *

Rainesfere was glorious in the late fall. Its proximity to the Frostback Mountains made the air unseasonably frigid. West winds blew across the small bannorn, bringing early frost on the ground in the mornings.

We spent five days there, and we lived as newlyweds. No longer hiding our love from the servants or pretending to sleep in separate rooms, we were unashamed of our relationship. The staff treated me as they would treat the lady of the house. I hadn't felt so at home since before my parents died, when I was innocently oblivious to the cruelty and dangers of the world outside my sheltered nest.

Teagan kept his business meeting brief. As expected, the locals didn't want another bann. They said Redcliffe was close enough to Rainesfere, and no one had an issue with him living miles away. They asked to have the bannorn annexed into Redcliffe, if the arl agreed. Teagan said he would think on it and give them his answer soon. I didn't know why he put it off. Why let go of something so dear to him when the people clearly wanted him as their leader?

When he wasn't in a meeting, we were together. We'd grown so comfortable with each other that it _felt_ like we were married. These were the happiest days of my life. But the days came to an end and it was time for me to return to the Vigil, and for him to resume his duties in Redcliffe.

He asked me to stay over another day or so at the castle, but I declined. I'd been gone from the Vigil for too long already. "Won't you come inside before you go?"

I knew better. He was trying to entice me to stay. "I'd like to leave as soon as possible. And the next time you try to lure me into your web, be more subtle." I knew him too well by now.

A servant met him in the courtyard to tell him the regent was waiting to see him. Eamon had been there for three days, he said. Teagan instructed the servant to tell Eamon he'd returned and would be with him directly.

He had Ser Perth and two other knights ready to escort me back to Amaranthine. We said a lengthy goodbye, with promises to write and see each other soon. Before I mounted my horse, he put a hand on my abdomen and told me to take good care of our son. I raised an eyebrow.

_A son, is it? We'll see._

* * *

Aiden was the first to approach her when she returned to the Vigil. Without waiting for her to come to the throne room, barely waiting for her to catch her balance after dismounting from her horse, he caught her in an embrace. "I'm so sorry, Winter. I swear I didn't mean to hurt you or humiliate you. It was cruel and stupid, and I'm ashamed of myself."

"Aiden," she said, trying to pull back from his tight embrace, "it's cold, it's raining, and I'd like to get inside by the fire."

"Not until I have your forgiveness," he insisted. "If I have to stand out here all afternoon and keep you warm, I'll do it. But you have to forgive me so I can forgive myself."

"You have it. Now please let me go inside."

"It doesn't sound like you mean it."

"_Move!_ I'm cold and I want to go inside!"

Her severe tone took him by surprise and he relaxed his hold enough for her to escape it. She ducked under his arms and started for the keep at a trot. "Hey, you shouldn't be running when you're pregnant!" he called after her. She didn't acknowledge or slow her pace.

He caught up to her inside the keep. "Winter, talk to me," he pleaded. "I've been worried half sick about you. I feel terrible about what we did, and mostly about how I didn't prevent it when I could have and should have."

"I'll talk to you as a group, but you'll have to wait until I'm ready. Right now, I'm cold, wet, and hungry. Your guilt isn't the most important thing on my agenda."

"What can I get for you? What can I do to help? Please don't shut me out. We're still friends, aren't we?"

She didn't like being so harsh with her friend but he had it coming. She was fighting back a twinge of her own guilt, knowing that they _meant_ it to be a harmless prank that backfired because of their thoughtlessness. She suspected Oghren was at the heart of it. The others weren't typically as coarse, but the dwarf was offensive to everyone in some manner or other.

"Fine," she answered, and the edge in her tone had softened a little—just a little. "Have the kitchen staff bring a meal to my suite. I'd prefer to dine alone."

"I'll get right on it," he said, and dashed off to carry out her wishes. He went to the kitchen where the cooks were preparing to serve the midday meal to the workers, merchants, soldiers, and staff in the dining hall, and to the warden-commander, seneschal, captain, and wardens in the officers' private dining room. He instructed them to have two meals sent to the warden-commander's suite. It wasn't quite what she asked of him, but he wasn't going to let the day end with her still angry at him.

By now the officers and wardens knew what had happened in Redcliffe. It was impossible to keep it from them, since they'd returned without Winter and without explanation. Bryant would have confessed their foolish behavior, but Oghren beat him to it, still laughing at her reaction. Aiden wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp, but the little bastard was always so drunk he probably couldn't feel pain.

The incident didn't exactly endear the errant wardens to the rest of the officers. Varel and Garavel listened with stony silence and expressions of disgust. Sigrun berated Oghren, but the oaf retorted that if she didn't like his humor she could piss off. Rather than lose her lover, she kept quiet, but she wasn't as open with him as before. Anyone could become the next target of his insulting, embarrassing humor.

Nathaniel had more reason to dislike Aiden, and he made biting remarks that Aiden didn't bother to respond to. The Howe boy was right—he _was_ an insensitive arse. Mhairi's slight interest in Aiden was effectively quashed. Justice went on about the cruelty of this world and its inhabitants.

Anders and Bryant, interestingly enough, finally had common ground. It was bad ground that had borne bitter seed, but their shared culpability formed a new bond between them. "The brotherhood of arseholes," Anders called their uneasy friendship. Bryant didn't take up the term, but he couldn't disagree with the mage. He felt like an arse for his participation in what he knew was wrong from the start.

The officers and wardens were aware the warden-commander had returned to the keep, but she didn't join them for the noon meal. "Is anyone surprised?" Varel asked, trying to keep his anger in check. "You boys will be lucky if she doesn't have the lot of you transferred to Soldier's Peak, to serve out the rest of your days as guardians of a dead land and an abandoned fort. You can do no harm there." He looked around the table and asked, "Where's the senior warden?" Nobody knew where he'd gone.

Mhairi's report was on Winter's desk, and she was reading it when her meal was brought it. "_Two_ meals?" she inquired. "I asked for one."

Aiden came in and sat at her table. "We're going to talk about this, Winter. Either reassign the four of us to some remote post in the Free Marches or hear me out."

She put the report down and joined him at the table. "Fine. Talk."

Before their meal was ended, she had forgiven him (with a stern warning _never_ to do anything like that again!) and their friendship suffered no lasting harm. Then, putting the incident behind her, she addressed Mhairi's scouting report. The party had found a darkspawn lair in western Amaranthine. A second report, from Amaranthine's constable, requested the wardens come to the city and investigate reports of darkspawn sitings outside its walls.

"We'll get on these tomorrow, after I've rested up from the ride and hopefully, when the rain has stopped. In the meantime, I'll decide if we go to both places as one group, or divide into two units and check them out. How do you feel about leading a team?"

He shrugged. "I'm ready, boss. Just say the word."

"Very well, I'll get back to you about it later. I need a nap."

Aiden approached her and placed a kiss on her cheek. "Thanks, Winter. I don't know what I would do if I lost your friendship."

"Likewise, you arse," she answered good-naturedly. "Now get out of here and let me rest."

* * *

Part 4 - O Sole Mio

My sleep was interrupted by the sound of someone walking. The person was inside my suite. I opened my eyes and saw Morrigan there, standing by the table, watching me with her yellow eyes. As Alistair used to say, "Creepy."

This time it wasn't a dream. She was really here. How she'd gotten in past the guards, through the throne room with the officers and my fellow wardens around, and into the living quarters, was something I would have to ask her. I hoped the crazy witch hadn't killed them all.

"Warden-Commander," she greeted with mock respect.

"Witch of the wilds," I responded in kind, rising from my bed. I felt too vulnerable with my weapons out of reach, so I moved closer to the desk where I'd left them.

"Your weapons won't be needed. I am not here to harm you." She took a seat, as if I'd invited her to stay and have a nice girly chat. "Your templar friend disrupted our last meeting. I would have preferred to hold our discussion without having to come here physically, but my efforts would have been thwarted again."

"Sorry for the inconvenience," I shrugged. "He's a good man."

"I'm not here to discuss your companions. I need to speak to you about an urgent matter."

"Is that so? Then please state your business and leave. Frankly, I don't see that we have anything to talk about."

"We do. It concerns your child."

My alertness jumped up to its highest level. How did she know about my pregnancy? "My child is none of your concern."

"On the contrary, he is my primary concern. He is the sole reason I've contacted you. You yourself, apart from him, do not matter to me."

"Shouldn't you be bothering Alistair about your own child instead of inquiring about mine? After all, you went through such bother to get him to lie with you so you could conceive. What went wrong? Was your womb too corrupted to hold the seed?" Jab, jab, jab. Being around her made me feel bitchy.

"Conception was successful," she confirmed. "Not my most thrilling encounter, but successful."

"Before we go further, how did you get him to agree to lie with you? I thought you two hated each other."

"Indeed. I despised him as much as he despised me. Maybe more. Aiden was gone, so there was only Alistair. As for convincing him, I gave him the one reason he couldn't ignore. He loved you. I convinced him my ritual would save your life, as you can see it has. In return, I needed to be impregnated by a man recently tainted."

"Yes, I've heard that much, but how did you convince him to physically go through with it? I mean, if I _hated_ a man, there would be no attraction and no chance I'd lie with him unless he forced himself on me."

"It was not forced, but I confess I had to dose him heavily with lyrium to gain his cooperation."

"Well," I said, "it would seem I owe Alistair an apology. He told the truth and I didn't believe him."

"Alistair is unimportant. He killed the seed, but he did me a service. I would have rid myself of it if he hadn't. The soul of the old god didn't come to me. Urthemiel chose you."

"What is this 'old god' stuff? The old gods become archdemons. Everyone knows that. Why would I have the soul of an archdemon now?" She must have been nuts if she thought I was the new archdemon. I hadn't had any urges to fly or devour people, hadn't developed the ability to breathe fire, and my skin wasn't bursting out in scales and spikes.

"You don't have it, and he's not the archdemon any longer. Your child has the soul of the old god. That's why, when he's born, you must give him to me."

"Give my child to _you_? Why in oblivion would I do that?"

"Because I'm the only one who can guide him to his full potential. Because I too am an old god."


	19. Everybody Wants Something

Everybody Wants Something…

Part 1 – Oh My (Old) Gods!

* * *

"Explain yourself, Morrigan. You come to me with outlandish demands and unbelievable stories, and I'm supposed to blindly trust you again after you deceived us all and betrayed me personally? I think not."

"This betrayal… you're referring to Alistair, I take it?" At my silence, she went on. "What a fool you are! I've told you he only consented to my request to save your life. Does that not prove he loves you? Does it not also prove what I've said all along—that love is weakness?"

"If that's your belief, it is _you_ who are the fool," I retorted. "Not to mention a sorry seductress if you have to drug a man to the point of stupefaction to make him lie with you."

"You know so little of men. They are simple-minded creatures driven by their instinctive need to procreate and to seek sensual pleasure where it can be found. If I'd been of a mind to seduce Alistair, he would not have resisted me. I simply had no interest in him other than completing the ritual with minimal bother."

"Aiden must have been drugged as well if he thought you were worthy of his time."

She ignored my remark, but her eyes flickered with something that could have been pain or anger. Nonetheless, she went on as if her former love's name hadn't been mentioned. "I have a wonder, if you will indulge me. You and I conceived on the same night. That much is obvious. But tell me, Winter, did Alistair come to you after he recovered from the lyrium?" The bitch gave a mocking laugh that got under my skin more than her words. "You heard our conversation—at least part of it. He wanted our little 'misdeed' kept from you, but you knew of it. So do enlighten me; did your warden come crawling to your bed to beg forgiveness, and did you welcome him with the very thing you'd denied him before? It was an unfortunate mistake on your part. Your conception is what caused our present dilemma."

_Am I hearing her right? Does she expect me to swap conception stories with her?_ "I owe you no explanation of my actions."

"Indeed. There is no time for idle talk. I'm here to convince you why you must give me your son."

"Good luck with that."

"Tis not luck. If you wish to see the world continue as it is, you will do as I ask. If not, I will not be responsible for its coming destruction."

I scoffed. "If you had that kind of power, you would have used it before now. You could have killed us. You could have wiped out the darkspawn with a wave of your staff or a haughty blast from your nostrils. You have no more ability than an ordinary mage, so drop the dramatic act and the 'mysterious witch of the wilds' routine. You're not fooling me."

"Your stubbornness does you no credit," she said. "Very well, if you persist in your mistrust, I will tell you everything. Then you will know why the child must be mine, and why Alistair and Aiden were, and are, expendable tools."

The story she told was one for the fairy tale books. She repeated that she was an old god. In the previous blights, four of the seven old gods were killed, absorbed into the body of the Grey Warden that killed them, and their otherwise immortal souls destroyed. The fifth archdemon, Urthemiel, was to have suffered the same fate, but she and Flemeth developed a ritual that would preserve the soul if there were a haven for it—a newly planted human seed, half tainted and half pure. The ritual had to be performed on the eve of battle—the battle in which the archdemon would be slain—and the soul, when it was released from the archdemon, would be drawn to her womb and join with the child. His father's blood would give the child immunity to the taint.

"So what went wrong?" I interrupted her ludicrous yarn. "How did I end up with this soul, as you claim I did? Was it merely because I was closer to the archdemon than you were?"

"Not at all. Urthemiel retained his intelligence before he joined with the child. He specifically chose you to bear his soul."

"I don't quite know how to word this delicately, so I'll say it outright. That's bullshit, Morrigan."

"Tis not surprising that you find it hard to believe. We old gods have been underground for many thousands of years. Flemeth and I escaped only by centuries of planning and preparation. In order to prevent another blight, we must remain hidden from the darkspawn that would turn us into archdemons. If we succumb to their corruption, two more blights remain. In the unlikely event that the races of this world survive the sixth blight, they will _not_ survive the last. It will be a full-scale war that will cover the planet, not just Ferelden or Thedas. It will consume every flesh creature, and the world you know will cease to be. The change that occurs in the seventh blight will be unstoppable and the damage irreversible."

"Well, that's a gloomy tale indeed," I remarked.

"You _must_ take this seriously!" she insisted, slamming her hand on the table in frustration. "You can try to be glib if you wish, but if you don't heed my warning, you doom humanity, as well as elvenkind and dwarvenkind. Do you wish their annihilation when it can be prevented with a simple act of selflessness?"

"The selfless act of giving you my child, you mean?"

"Yes."

"_Why_? Why is he so important to you?"

"I need him because I cannot defeat Flemeth alone." Her tone bordered on humble, if I wasn't mistaken.

"Don't think for an instant that I would give you my child, but explain to me how he can help you defeat Flemeth. Is this about his immunity to the taint? How will that make a difference?"

The story got more fantastic from this point. She wasn't a mage—not in her true form. She and Flemeth were dragons. (I should have guessed the tale would take this kind of turn.) Ancient dragons, more powerful than high dragons, and immortal. My child would be human, but he would have the power to command dragons. As an added bonus, he would also be immortal.

"He will reach a certain point of maturity, and then he will cease to age as a human does. When that occurs, his powers will rapidly develop to their full strength. He will be, literally, a god among humans. He cannot physically transform his body and fly with the dragons, but he can command them, whether to make them fall out of the sky to their deaths or to bend their will to his own to fight for him.

"Flemeth plans to unleash every dragon on the world at once. Have you not noticed the increased number of dragonlings and drakes, as we found in the ruined temple in the mountains? The high dragon you slew was a breeder, and dragons are being bred for a reason. They are her army. Flemeth will lead them in her true form, as the most powerful dragon and the strongest of the old gods. The dragon you battled at her hut was a weak projection of what she will truly become. Had she revealed her actual strength, the darkspawn would have been alerted to her presence, and she needs a few decades to complete her preparations for war. She doesn't wish to be a tool for the darkspawn, but to eradicate them along with mankind."

"Suppose this were all true," I said. "How is it that the darkspawn don't know that their two old gods have run away from home? Surely they would notice a couple of missing dragons."

She let my sarcasm pass unchallenged. "All dragons possess immortal souls. When one 'dies', its soul returns to the ground for a few centuries, until it forms a new vessel. Old gods likewise, but the Grey Wardens ended our immortality with their knowledge of the taint, and by being willing to sacrifice their lives to absorb our souls. As we speak, the darkspawn are trying to corrupt common dragon souls. Tis fortunate that they are ignorant creatures and cannot discern a simple dragon from an old god. Eventually, though, even they will realize the things they guard aren't old gods. Before they do, we must be ready. That's when Flemeth will deploy her army."

"You intend to fight against Flemeth?"

"I must. I do not want the changes she will bring. Not only so, but it is in her plan that I die in the final battle so that she will be the last of the old gods. There will be none left to challenge her."

"Let me see if I understand the story. You plotted with Flemeth to accompany us Grey Wardens for the sole purpose of conceiving a child of the taint and absorbing an old god's soul."

"Yes."

"Flemeth trusted you to have this unique child and to raise him alone."

"Yes."

"How is this all-knowing, 'most powerful old god' Flemeth so naïve as to trust you?"

"She is far from naïve, but she is mad for power. Her plan was for me and my son to fight at her side to help command the dragons, as they will number in the thousands by that time. When the world is conquered, she and her followers will turn on us."

"An interesting story," I said, signaling that the conversation was over. How much of what she said was true and how much was made-up garbage to try to get me to give her my child, I couldn't say. But I'd had enough of her and her plots, and I wanted her out of my life.

"You have no care that the world is in peril?" she questioned, apparently surprised that I hadn't swallowed her tale like the gullible fool she believed me to be.

"It's not in immediate danger, so get back to me in a couple of decades and I'll give you my final decision. Right now, I want you to leave. I have work to do and you're in my way." I walked to the door and put my hand on the door handle. She stopped me before I could open it.

"One last thing you must know, and this is not for the future but for right now. You _must_ be careful with your life. You cannot allow yourself to come to harm or to die. If you die, the child dies. Leave the wardens. Leave this cursed place, because darkspawn are nearby."

"I am a Grey Warden, if you'll recall. Fighting darkspawn is what I do." I ended with a tone iced with cynicism. "But I'm touched by your concern, Morrigan. I would almost think you were a friend if I didn't already know you're a self-serving bitch."

Again she let my insult pass unanswered. "Beware of the Architect and the mother. They plot your destruction, each in their own way."

_Enough already._ I turned the door handle and she vanished, her human form replaced by a raven like the one I'd seen on the rooftop. The bird flew out of my suite and through the living quarters until it found a window, then she/it soared out of the keep.

_She'd better not drop bird shit on my rugs._ The thought made me snicker.

* * *

Bryant felt something was wrong. It wasn't quite the same as the time he'd detected dark magic in the commander's suite, but it was similar. It wasn't darkspawn, he knew, because his blood didn't burn in his veins. His templar abilities alerted him with the disquiet he experienced when there was blood magic or demonic activity nearby. Again, it was similar to dark magic, but not exactly like anything he'd sensed before. Whatever was causing the disturbance, it wasn't natural, and it was inside the Vigil.

He walked the length and breadth of the keep, searching for the source of the disruption in the normal spiritual flow. He wondered briefly if the mage had caused a breech in the Veil with his careless pranks and showing off. It was possible, but Anders wasn't _that_ irresponsible. Childish, perhaps, and too focused on himself, but not a danger to others. Bryant dismissed Anders as the cause of the problem and kept concentrating, following the spiritual signature that all creatures of the Fade emitted. As soon as he'd thought it, he knew this being wasn't of the Fade. It was… something else entirely. Something he had never encountered.

He turned down the hall into the living quarters, and was startled with a raven flew above him and out an open window. When it left, the atmosphere cleared and the sensation of a strange presence was gone. Still, he would be remiss in his duties if he didn't check on the commander.

He knocked on her door softly, hoping he wasn't waking her. She'd just arrived from Redcliffe hours earlier and she was probably resting. After the incident at the castle he was ashamed to face her, but if he had to suffer shame, so be it. He deserved it. "Commander," he called out. "Is everything alright?"

She opened the door. "You tell me, Bryant. _Is_ everything alright? Is there a problem in the keep that I should know about?"

"I thought I sensed… No, Commander. There's no problem in the keep that requires your attention."

"Very well," she said. "I'll be out later to discuss our next mission. Have the rest of the wardens assemble in the throne room in an hour." Without waiting for his reply, she closed her door.

* * *

Eamon helped himself to another glass of wine. The castle steward informed him that Arl Teagan had just returned (from wherever he'd been keeping himself) and would be in to see him directly.

"Did you tell him I've been here for three days?" Eamon asked crossly. Patience was never his strong suit, and being made to wait unnecessarily was the most irksome offense.

"I did, Regent. He's aware that your grace has been waiting."

"My grace doesn't appreciate being kept waiting," he muttered, taking a sip of wine. In truth, he hadn't confined himself to the castle, like he'd made it sound. He had been to the village, talked with old friends and acquaintances, and even spent some time in Lloyd's tavern. Now _that_ was an interesting visit. The locals were all abuzz about how the arl had thrown four Grey Wardens out of his castle. The wardens had come to the tavern a week ago and Lloyd overheard them talking. Arguing, actually. The gossip was too good to keep to himself, though he knew little details of what had transpired between the arl and the wardens to cause Teagan to send them away.

"My apologies," Teagan said as he entered the sitting room. "I was in Rainesfere. I wish you'd sent word to me that you were here. I would have cut the trip short."

Eamon waved his apology off. "I like what you've done to the castle. Messed up my study and turned it into a blighted parlor, did you?"

"Does that bother you, Brother?" Teagan smiled. "You didn't have to abdicate your post, you know."

"Sometimes I wish I hadn't," Eamon grumbled. Then he quickly added, "I miss the quiet out here. Denerim is too crowded and busy."

Teagan understood. He found Redcliffe too noisy, preferring the serenity of Rainesfere. Small wonder Winter readily agreed with his idea to visit his old bannorn. She settled into his manor like it was her home. Once she ran out of excuses and accepted his proposal, it _would_ be her home. He'd gladly live with her and their child at the estate, and stay at Redcliffe Castle a couple of days a week for work. The nobles' proposal to annex Rainesfere into the arling was tempting.

"What are you smiling about?"

"Hmm? Oh, just happy to see you," Teagan said unconvincingly.

"Fine, be evasive if you like. We'll get back to that later. First I'd like to know why you threw the Grey Wardens out of the castle. You've caused quite a stir in the village."

"Have I? Believe me, they deserved it. They behaved like fools and insulted an honored guest in my home. I had every right to put them out."

"Teagan," Eamon sighed, "it isn't about your personal rights any more. You're an _arl_, for Andraste's sake. This isn't some sparsely-populated little bannorn where you can get away with any rash decision that suits you."

"Excuse me? Are you trying to say I don't have the right to decide who does and doesn't come into my home? They weren't here on Grey Warden business, Eamon. They were on furlough."

"Nevertheless, the people of Ferelden respect the wardens almost as much as they do the king, and that will be the case for some time to come. They are considered heroes. If they misbehaved because they overindulged in ale while on leave, you could have let them sleep it off…"

"No, you're wrong, Brother. They didn't 'misbehave'; they behaved shamefully and lewdly, and their actions affected someone I hold in the highest esteem. If they'd only insulted me, I wouldn't have given it a second thought. But that wasn't the case."

"Was your offended guest a noble or a person of rank? Someone the king himself would defend in the same situation?" Eamon challenged.

"Absolutely."

"Well, I guess I can smooth it over with King Alistair if word of it reaches him," Eamon conceded. "That's assuming he's in condition to comprehend what's being said."

"Why wouldn't he comprehend… Is the king ill?"

"In a manner of speaking, one could say so," Eamon said. "He's _lovesick_, of all things, and because the object of his affection doesn't share the sentiment, he's taken to numbing himself with ale, wine, or anything that puts him into a drunken stupor. He refuses to meet with nobles, he won't even read letters from foreign monarchs much less try to improve relations with them, and he stays in his chambers like a hermit. I'm becoming concerned for him as well as for Ferelden."

Teagan was shocked by the news. Alistair was a gregarious man by nature. He couldn't imagine him turning into a drunk and a recluse over a woman. Over anything, for that matter. Teagan had seen him shortly after the massacre at Ostagar, in which Alistair had lost his mentor and best friend, and after Loghain had blamed the wardens for Cailan's death and put a bounty on their heads. Alistair had reacted angrily to Loghain's treason and lies, but he didn't act irrationally.

"You're sure that's what it is?" Teagan asked. Eamon shrugged, at a loss to explain the king's self-destructive behavior otherwise. "How long has he been acting this way?"

"Weeks," Eamon answered. "He was fine one day, then he got a visit from the Commander of the Grey, they had words, and he started drinking right after that."

"Commander of… Do you mean Winter? He's lovesick over _Winter_?"

"It would seem so."

"I find this hard to believe," Teagan said. "I've seen them together on several occasions. They were guests in my home twice. At no time did either of them act like they were anything more than fellow wardens and friends. Are you quite sure, Eamon? He's in love with Winter?"

Eamon scowled at his brother. "Why is it so hard to believe? She's a lovely girl. Alistair is a handsome young man. They lived and fought together for over thirteen months, and they _had_ to have developed something a bit more than a fellow-warden relationship."

Teagan countered, "She also lived and fought with her other companions for the same length of time. Alistair had other females in his party. Is it logical to assume that just because they were both wardens, they naturally had to have had a romantic relationship? Aiden was there from the start. She could as easily have developed feelings for him, but she didn't."

"And just how do you know what she feels and whom she prefers, First Warden Guerrin?" Eamon demanded in a mocking tone.

"I know precisely whom she prefers. She prefers _me_, Eamon. I love her, and if it is within my power, I will have her as my wife."

Eamon sat silently staring in disbelief at his brother. The full impact of Teagan's words struck him at last, and he said, "Teagan, has it been so long that you have forgotten what I went through with Isolde? Trust me, I do understand how a man can be seduced by a beautiful face and the touch of youthful skin. The feeling is as addictive as lyrium, and far more intoxicating. But it's just as dangerous—"

"Would you compare Winter to Isolde? They are nothing alike! Isolde was a serpent from the start. She used you to escape Orlais, and she wanted your land and wealth…"

"And for what purpose is Winter using you, Brother? How are the two women so different? Isolde was also beautiful, young, exotic, interesting, adventurous in her own way…"

"What do you propose, Eamon? That I ignore my heart and tell Winter to ignore hers? Shall I tell her that the king desires her, and she must bow to his whim?"

"Of course not. That's not what I meant. I merely believe you are… beguiled by her youth. And maybe Winter is enamored more with the _idea_ of an older man than with the man himself. If I may be blunt, perhaps it's not your heart you should consult."

"I… I can't believe…" Teagan sputtered, outraged at his brother's implication that he was no different from a rutting stag.

"Don't be angry with me, Teagan," Eamon urged. "I shouldn't have said that. Understand that I'm looking out for your best interests. You are my only family, and I don't want this quarrel to come between us. Nor do I want your feelings for that girl to come between us. If you were to turn away from her, she might find her way back to Alistair…"

"Find her way back? You are convinced she has romantic feelings for Alistair, and I can assure you she does not. 'That girl', as you insist on referring to her, loves me as I love her."

"Mark my words, Teagan. She will tire of you. She should be with a man her own age—"

"Winter is carrying my baby."

"Please tell me you're having me on," Eamon said, barely able to get the words past his throat. Teagan glared at him defiantly without answering. "Well congratulations, Arl Teagan! You have done a fine job of taking a bad situation and making it multiple times worse! What am I supposed to tell the king when I get back to Denerim?"

"I don't care what you tell him, but my personal life is none of his concern. I respect him as my king. He has my loyalty and my sword if need be, but I'll be damned if he will have my woman."

"Teagan…" Eamon began. Alistair's drunken ramble came back to him. He forgot about the king and his emotional problems. His only worry was for his brother. "The girl… Winter… she's tainted. The child she's carrying is tainted. Darkspawn taint."

Teagan was aware of many who had fallen victim to the taint during the blight. Their deaths were protracted and horrible. Winter showed no sign of the taint, and she'd fought darkspawn for a year. She killed the archdemon with a melee weapon, for Andraste's sake! She'd come off that rooftop bathed in its blood. If she were tainted, it would have been evident by now. More accurately, she would have died of the taint.

"Winter is fine. She's healthy. If she were tainted, the healer would have told us so."

"That healer is one of her wardens now. He's tainted too."

"What are you going on about?"

Eamon didn't dare explain further. The king had let Grey Warden secrets slip out when he was drunk. It would be a severe breech of trust for Eamon to repeat what he'd heard. He'd already gone too far. "Nothing. I just assumed, since they fight darkspawn, that they must all be tainted."

"You worry too much. Don't you have enough to handle with the king? Must you try to take on my problems too? I'm well able to take care of myself, as I've done for the past twenty years."

Eamon relented. He had taken the conversation as far as he could. Teagan was approaching his forty-first year. He wasn't a child to be reprimanded for choosing wrong friends. He knew what he was doing, and evidently, what he wanted and _whom_ he wanted. It was regrettable that the king was in love with the same girl, but what could be done about it?

The regent rose to leave. "I'd better head back to Denerim and make sure Alistair hasn't drowned himself in ale. I'll see myself out."

"What? You're leaving _now_? Eamon, I apologize that our discussion got so heated. For my part, I won't say I was wrong, but my presentation was harsh."

"That's not why I'm going," Eamon smiled. "I've been gone for a week already. I should be there…"

"Tomorrow is soon enough," Teagan insisted. "Stay, and let's have a proper visit before you return to the palace."

"That sounds good to me," Eamon said.

* * *

Part 2 – Wayward Wardens

The wardens were gathered in the throne room as I'd requested. I could hear the murmur of voices from the hallway. When I opened the door and entered the room, everyone went silent.

I left the incident at Redcliffe for last. "Have any of you heard reference to someone known as 'the Architect'?" None of them had. "We need to confirm or disprove that such a person exists. I've received information, but no solid lead and no location. Inquire of every hunter, farmer, and traveler you encounter in the arling.

"We're going to Amaranthine. Residents of the city say darkspawn have been sighted outside the walls and the constable is asking for our help. Once we've dealt with that issue, we will split off into two teams. One will further investigate the area to the west where Mhairi's scouts located the darkspawn nest. Those of you not on that team will be with me, and we're going to the Wending Wood. The only place we didn't fully explore was the silverite mine. I plan to go through every tunnel and try to find the source of these talking darkspawn.

"Finally, I want to remind you of how we wardens should conduct ourselves in public. While I encourage good relationships and fun, let's keep the banter quiet. Secondly, save any disputes among yourselves for your down time here at the keep, not in public. If we can't be trusted not to fight against each other, we _won't_ be trusted to protect the population. Thirdly, don't let our order become a joke to the people of Ferelden. We are the subject of ridicule in Redcliffe. I pray the king doesn't hear of it. This cannot happen…"

"Aw, get over it already, Commander. It was a great prank." Oghren had been a member of the warrior caste in Orzammar, but he didn't have a clue how to be a soldier.

"Shut it, dwarf," Aiden snarled at him.

"Show some respect," Bryant added.

"For Andraste's sake, you drunken lout," Anders put in. "Drop it."

"All of you are a disgrace to the order," Mhairi sniffed.

"Can we please get to work?" Nathaniel said. "I'm sick of hearing about Redcliffe."

"Hey, I like it when a woman is vocal. Shows I'm getting the job done," Oghren leered. His gravelly voice made his comments sound even more licentious than they were. "That old Teagan must have some moves, eh Commander?"

Aiden took a step toward him but Byrant was closer to Oghren. He had to aim low, but he punched the disgusting little bastard squarely in his dirty mouth. Oghren went flying back, hitting the bookshelf and scattering volumes around the floor.

"Enough!" I shouted. "You are all confined to the keep. I'm going to Amaranthine alone. When the rest of you grow up and want to be Grey Wardens, talk to the seneschal. If he decides you're ready, he'll let me know. Dismissed." I stalked out of the throne room, angry and frustrated with the childishness of these men. It was too bad that Sigrun and Justice, who hadn't participated in the argument, had to suffer along with the guilty ones, but that was a warrior's lot. They would have to learn to stand together. If they didn't, every one of them was destined to fall in battle.

Captain Garavel caught up to me outside. "Commander, if you please," he said. "The seneschal sent me after you. Allow me to go with you to Amaranthine. The king doesn't want any of us to travel outside the walls of the Vigil on our own."

"Come along," I answered, glad for his company. I didn't _want_ to travel alone with the threat of darkspawn about. If I found them around Amaranthine, I might not be able to take them on by myself. Even with Garavel's help and the assistance of the Amaranthine guard, it could be risky. We would have to assess the situation when we got to the city.

* * *

Varel thought he'd seen this bunch at their lowest when the four returned from Redcliffe without the commander and told of their shameful antics, but he was wrong. They'd reached a new level of stupidity. Why the commander tolerated the dwarf's insubordination was beyond him, but Varel wasn't having any more of it. He sent the captain after the warden-commander, then he had Oghren thrown in the dungeon, where he would stay until the commander returned. With the main instigator out of the way, he hoped the others would put their petty differences aside.

"I'd like you wardens to remain in the living quarters for the time being," Varel said. "If you're needed, you will be summoned."

"You're confining us to quarters?" Anders aksed. "That's not fair! It was the dwarf's fault."

"I'm confining you to the wing, not to your rooms," Varel clarified.

"You can't do that," Nathaniel protested.

"I can, and I _have_ done that. When the commander is away from the Vigil, the seneschal is in charge. You're aware of this. Now please, all of you, get out of my sight."

Varel had served in the army his entire adult life—more than thirty-five years. He'd fought in King Maric's army against the Orlesians, in King Cailan's army against the darkspawn (though not at Ostagar), and been instrumental in the underground uprising against Rendon Howe's decree that the people of the arling surrender their properties and swear fealty to Loghain. He'd fought alongside, and against, thousands of soldiers during his long career. But he had never witnessed anything like the undisciplined behavior of these wardens.

_If these people are Ferelden's last line of defense, Maker help us all._

* * *

Bryant cradled his right hand. He'd put all his strength into that punch. A normal man would have been knocked unconscious at best, suffered a broken jaw and a lot of missing teeth at worst. The dwarf evidently had a jawbone of iron. With his skull, he had a matching set.

"Looks like a couple of broken knuckles there, Bryant," Aiden remarked. "Good job."

Anders could have healed him easily but he wasn't going to volunteer. Bryant was an alright guy as templars go, but he was still a templar, and Anders despised the lot of them.

"I knew that dwarf would be trouble from the moment we found him in the basement," Mhairi said. "He has the manners of a swine… and that's an insult to the swine."

Nathaniel said, "Nobody likes him. But let's be honest, Mhairi. When you heard what they'd done to the commander, you laughed along with the rest of us. It wasn't a kind thing to do, but you said yourself that she overreacted."

"Until I learned she was with child, yes, I thought she overreacted. But when I heard she was pregnant… Maker, I felt so badly for her. You men can't understand what a woman goes through during that time."

"Other than growing an immense belly?" Anders proffered. "And getting weepy, grouchy, bloated, and gassy? A blessed event, they call it. I'll bet their men suffer more than they do."

Mhairi glared at him but kept silent. She'd lost two babies, both stillborn. Her husband left her after the second child died, saying he didn't want a wife who couldn't bear him a son. She wasn't the type to share her personal life with anyone, but after the Redcliffe incident, she guarded her private matters more closely. These fellows couldn't be trusted except on the battlefield.

Sigrun said, "Oghren is coarse, but he's not so different from half the men in Orzammar. I don't approve of his behavior most of the time, but he's not a bad fellow once you get to know him."

Nathaniel answered, "You only say that because he's your lover, Sigrun. Maybe you were raised around men like him and maybe you find crudeness alluring, but to the rest of us, he's disgusting. I don't find it at all surprising that his wife _and_ his girlfriend left him. What I do find surprising is that he can attract women in the first place."

Rather than take offense, Sigrun laughed off his remark. She hadn't had much experience with humans and she was aware that they saw things differently from dwarves. The seneschal may have been unfair when he put Oghren in the dungeon, but it wasn't her place to question him. Unlike Oghren, Sigrun understood authority and duty. Oghren was of a wilder nature, and that was part of his appeal.

"Grey Wardens are highly respected by my brothers in the Legion," she said, not responding to Nathaniel's comments. "I must say, having lived among you for a while, that I'm glad I chose not to join your order."

"Right, because becoming a broodmother is a far more exciting fate," Anders said. "That is what happens to dwarf women who are captured by darkspawn, isn't it?"

"Either that, or we're used for food," Sigrun replied. Her offhand remark gave Anders a shudder.

"I do not understand your world," Justice finally spoke up. "We are part of one unit, a fellowship of warriors against a common foe, are we not? Yet you fight each other with the same ferocity that you attack mortal enemies. How can unity and strife coexist? One will eventually overcome the other. From what I've seen, you will give in to strife."

The rest of the group was silenced by his observation. He was right; they'd been wasting so much time arguing with each other that they'd lost sight of the true enemies.

"I just realized," Aiden said, "that we might have inadvertently put the commander's life in danger. You know what I'm talking about, Mhairi. I saw your scouting report. The arling has pockets of darkspawn cropping up everywhere. We let her go out there alone—or practically alone, with only Garavel to help her. He's an able fighter but he's not a warden. What if she decides to go explore that silverite mine? What if that mine is full of more darkspawn than the two of them can handle? We're stuck here, unable to help, all because that… that… sickening excuse for a dwarf couldn't keep his twisted thoughts to himself and his big mouth shut." He'd worked himself into a rage. "If she comes to harm or, Maker forbid, if she dies out there, I swear I'll kill Oghren."

Another hush fell on the room. Nobody had considered the possible repercussions of their earlier squabbling. It seemed like a little unrest, caused more by boredom than animosity. Now, Aiden's words gave it an ominous slant.

"Why is everyone so glum?" Sigrun asked with childlike innocence. "To give one's life in battle is the most glorious achievement a warrior can attain."

"Only if you're already dead inside," Bryant answered her.

* * *

Garavel and I met no darkspawn on the way to Amaranthine. Outside the city's high stone walls, though, there were signs of darkspawn presence. Slain cattle, half-eaten animals, carelessly discarded weapons and the like. The city's poor, housed in shacks and tents outside the walls, told us of a talking darkspawn that led a small band of the monsters on repeated attacks. They didn't kill any of the people, which was most peculiar.

"Darkspawn attack humans on sight, no matter who they are," I said to Garavel. "They are drawn to Grey Wardens first, but then they'll kill anyone else, whether it be a soldier or a small child. What is going on with this band? If their leader could speak, why didn't it try to communicate with the constable or the head guard… or anyone?"

Constable Aidan greeted us at the city gates. "Thank the Maker you've come, Commander. The people are frightened out of their wits. I've taken to bringing those squatters inside the city at night, but the nobles protest so vehemently that I have to put them back out in the morning, and I fear they are in terrible danger. I don't want to have their blood on my hands because of a handful of wealthy snobs."

"Normally, the 'squatters' wouldn't have survived the first attack," I said. "Something strange is going on. This isn't typical darkspawn behavior. I don't know what to make of it, but I intend—"

"Commander, look!" the constable exclaimed, pointing toward the shacks.

I turned around to see a darkspawn, dressed in what looked to be costly, hooded leather armor—highly unusual for these beasts. The creature was alone. It approached slowly, holding its hands up in a gesture of surrender. Its gait was uncertain, not clumsy like the average darkspawn. It looked as if it had recently learned to walk. Then, to our shock, it spoke.

"Be not killing," it said. I wasn't sure if it meant for us not to kill it, or that it didn't plan to try to kill us. "This one is come for to speak to Commander."

The constable's guard stood with his bow drawn and an arrow poised to slay the creature. I put a hand out toward the guard. "Hold your fire," I ordered. "Let's see what this is about."

Garavel protested. "Commander, this is the same kind of monster that attacked the Vigil and slew your fellow wardens. They were within a moment of cutting Varel's throat. Should we allow this thing to live?"

"Until I know its intent and what it has to say, I'll let it live. If it makes a move or says a single word I don't like, I'll have the guard put that arrow through its heart." He gave an uneasy assent. I called to the creature, "I'm the Commander. What do you want of me?"

"The Architect is having a want to meet the Commander. He is meaning no harm."

"Why didn't this Architect come here himself?" I asked. "These attacks outside the city are your doing, are they not? To get my attention?"

"This one must be bringing you here. He be not killing your kind."

"Where is this Architect, creature?"

"This one am bringing Commander to him."

Garavel protested more strenuously. "Commander, surely this is a trick. You don't seriously wish to follow this monster, do you?"

"I have to find the Architect, Garavel. This might be the only way to learn his location." Even as I said the words, Morrigan's warning rang in my ears.

"_Beware of the Architect…"_

* * *

Garavel and I followed the creature to the Wending Woods, and as I expected, into the silverite mine. That was the Architect's lair. When I was there before, the mine didn't appear to be a likely place for a hideout. We had peeked inside and saw a rickety set of stairs leading down to a lower level, but beyond that, the only tunnel in sight was blocked with boulders.

Now the tunnel was clear, and we passed through it into a holding area complete with barred cells. Garavel kept his hand on his sword. I wished mine weren't on my back even though they were within easy reach. I would have preferred, right now, to have them in my hands.

"They're not locking us up," the captain muttered. "I'll go down fighting, but I won't be a prisoner of these creatures."

Our guide turned at Garavel's comment. "The Architect be meaning no harm to the Commander. You with Commander. You be coming also to no harm." He went back to his task of leading us through winding tunnels, doorways that opened to what looked like an office or study and a room for… experiments, perhaps? The table with the restraints at each end looked sinister, as did the bloodstains on the table and on the floor beside it.

"_Someone_ came to harm here," I pointed out. "Captain, I'm starting to think this Architect's pet is lying to us."

"I've thought that from the beginning," the captain answered grimly.

The creature grew more excited as we neared another set of doors. "It is being this way. The Architect is being waiting for Commander."

_This one is being annoyed with this farce. This Architect is up to no good, and I wish I'd held my temper back at the Vigil and brought a couple of wardens along._

The doors opened at our approach. Behind them was a tall, thin man in fancy mage's robes. His back was to us. When he turned, his face was partially covered by a mask. His hands were oddly formed, too large for his body, with unnaturally long fingers and webbed skin between them. At the fingertips were long, pointed nails. I could imagine him slashing out at us with those hands, tearing our throats open before we could draw a blade in defense.

"Welcome, Commander," the being spoke. His tone was calm and the quality of his voice rather pleasant. "I regret that I had to take such measures to bring you here. I cannot easily leave the confines of my home."

"Can't imagine why," I mumbled, looking around at the room. The Architect was flanked by two women. One was a dwarf, the other an elf. Both had mottled faces—a sign of the same type of corruption that we'd seen in Hespith in the broodmother's lair.

He floated toward me. Yes, floated. The being didn't walk, and I couldn't tell whether or not he had legs under his robes. Nothing about him made me curious enough to take a look. He stopped when he was a couple of feet from me. "You are correct about my companions," he said.

_He can read minds as well as fly. That must come in handy. _

"They bear the marks of the taint, but it was not forced upon them. Each willingly accepted it, and they serve me because they choose to. You see, they believe in my work, and my goals have become important to them."

"What are those goals?"

"To evolve my race into the kind of creature I've become. Intelligent, non-aggressive creatures. But to do so, I require something your kind is not willing to give us."

"And what is that? Our lives?"

"No, Commander. Your blood."

"We're unwilling to part with our blood? And you're confused by this?"

"Not in the least. But for centuries, wardens have taken our blood and used it to transform yourselves into our mortal enemies with a power that enabled you to find and destroy us. We, on the other hand, need your blood—warden blood—to become as you are. We seek not a war with you, but a way to live at peace with you."

"I don't think that's possible," I said. "It is your kind that has caused five blights, the fourth of which lasted for a century, nearly destroying mankind. You will continue to seek out the souls of the old gods, as you're doing even now, and when your corruption reaches one, another blight will begin."

"A lamentable truth," he admitted. "We do seek the souls of the old gods. They rightfully belong to us, and to all the creatures of the underground."

"Nonsense. If you have evolved to this point, you are able to understand that coexistence isn't possible as long as you continue to follow your old ways. I see no evidence that you want to change or _plan_ to change."

"That is true. We are compelled by the need to seek out the old gods. It is not something I can change, or would want to change were it within my power to do so."

"Why have you brought me down here, Architect? To drain my blood and make more of your talking darkspawn?"

"I would have taken only some of your blood, Commander, and then let you go free. But I sense what you carry inside you. You possess that which my kind wants most. Urthemiel, thought to have been slain. But he yet lives, by some power beyond the scope of even my understanding. He is the one that can free us, but his soul must be released from the flesh that holds him. So you see, I cannot allow you to leave here alive."


	20. Big Trouble in Little Amaranthine

Big Trouble in Little Amaranthine

Part 1 – Damsel in Distress

* * *

Garavel regained consciousness, but he made no move to reveal he wasn't incapacitated as his captors believed. He listened while the Architect planned with his companions. Little made sense, but the captain understood the main point: these creatures intended to kill them.

"The soul has been joined to a human embryo. How ingenious," the Architect remarked with what sounded to Garavel like perverse admiration. "It was done with magic, and it will have to be _un_done with magic. This is beyond the range of my particular powers, but we know a mage who can help us, don't we? Seranni, it's time you visit your sister. Tell her you need her help and bring her to me." The elf woman agreed and left to find her sister.

Garavel remembered the commander telling him and Varel that they'd had to kill a female elf mage in the Wending Wood. The elf believed humans kidnapped her sister, and she had killed travelers, traders, soldiers—anyone who passed through the wood—to get revenge. She accused the wardens of the same kidnapping. Now the mystery was solved. The elf was right about her sister missing, but it wasn't against her will. Seranni was the missing sister.

There was a brief silence, then the Architect continued. "No, Utha. I can't take any of her blood until we've released the soul." Another silence, followed by, "I agree with you. If not for the soul she carries, she might have been persuaded to help our cause. Your fellow wardens would have made exceptional allies. But that possibility is lost to us. Once I destroy her offspring, nothing will appease her but our destruction."

"_Fellow wardens"?_ Garavel thought. _The dwarf aligned herself with this monster, and she was a Grey_ _Warden?_

Garavel cautiously opened one eye just enough to get his bearings. He was lying on the floor of the laboratory. The Architect and the dwarf woman were about ten feet away from him, standing beside the experimentation table. Garavel assumed the commander was strapped to that table.

"Utha," the Architect said to the dwarf, "put the male in a holding cell. I'll decide what's to be done with him after I finish with the commander."

Garavel closed his eyes and lay limp and still. The dwarf grabbed the captain's ankles and dragged him out. "Carefully, Utha, until we know if he will live or not," the creature cautioned her. She slowed her pace and attempted not to knock Garavel's head against every corner between the laboratory and the cells.

When they reached the holding cells, the dwarf dropped her burden and pulled her keys from her belt to unlock the door. While she was occupied, Garavel leapt up and snatched the daggers that were strapped to her back. In a deft move, he brought both of them downward and buried them into either side of her neck, severing veins and arteries, feeling the blades strike together when they met and crossed in her chest, piercing her heart and killing her instantly. He pulled the blades out as the dwarf slumped to the floor and wiped the tainted blood on her armor. He would have to think of a way to kill the Architect while he was unguarded. There wasn't much time before the elf woman returned.

* * *

"Who's there?" Aiden asked, looking about the room. He'd heard a familiar voice, but it wasn't one of his companions. Recognition was just out of reach. Whoever it was, they whispered of an urgent need for his intervention.

"Nobody's here, Aiden," Mhairi said. "Are you hearing things?"

"Yeah. Actually, I am. And I'm not going to sit around here and do nothing while the commander is in trouble."

"Wait a minute, who said she's in trouble?" Nathaniel asked. "You can't be sure of that. And she's got Garavel with her."

"I'm telling you I heard a voice," Aiden insisted. "It told me she was in danger and needed our help." He'd been sitting on a table, brooding about the afternoon's fiasco that led to him and the rest of the wardens being confined to the keep. The voice urged him to get moving. _Now_. He got to his feet. "I'm going after her."

"I felt a presence," Justice said to the others. "Neither of the Fade nor of your world."

Bryant said he had felt it too, and added that he'd sensed it once before, earlier in the day.

Aiden checked his quiver. Satisfied he had sufficient arrows, he said, "It's settled then. Seneschal or no seneschal, I've got to find a way to get out of here. The rest of you can do as you like, but my gut tells me something's wrong."

"Your _gut_?" Sigrun repeated. "Your gut speaks to you?"

Aiden didn't have time to explain it. He said to her, "Sig, I need you to do me a favor. Distract the seneschal long enough for me to slip past the throne room."

"I'm coming with you," Anders said. Bryant, Mhairi, Nathaniel, and Justice took up their arms and made ready to sneak out with him.

"One thing first," Bryant said. He held up his hand toward Anders. "I'm no good in battle with a broken hand. You're a healer, aren't you?"

"Say no more," Anders consented, and he cast a burst of light at Bryant's injured hand. The bones knitted together, good as new. _After all, this is an emergency,_ he told himself. Bryant thanked him, and Anders felt a tiny twinge of guilt for acting like an arse. The twinge passed quickly.

Sigrun engaged Varel in a detailed conversation about the taint and the joining. Since she wasn't a warden, she faked interest in becoming one to hold the seneschal's attention. It was a brilliant maneuver.

The throne room door was closed and the wardens were able to slip by, walking softly, one by one. When the group was outside the keep, they quickened their pace and headed for the Wending Wood.

"You're sure she's there?" Anders asked. "She said she was going to Amaranthine."

"She did, but she was lured to the wood. To the silverite mine."

"How do you know this?" Nathaniel asked. "Was it the voice again? Are you seeing ghosts too?"

"You can stay at the keep, Howe, or you can come along and help. But don't push me right now. You don't want to do that." Aiden's deadly serious tone halted further chatter.

Mhairi was worried too. She wasn't sure what Justice could sense, but he _was_ of the Fade. If he said he felt a strange presence, she believed him. As far as Aiden hearing voices, it was just as likely as Bryant sensing the same presence Justice did. Since the blight, nothing had been normal. Since she arrived at the Vigil, she'd witnessed more supernatural things than one person ought to see in a lifetime. And since she'd become a Grey Warden, strange occurrences had become the rule rather than the exception. She wouldn't trade a moment of her present life for her former quiet, boring existence as a civilian and the spouse of a seafaring merchant in Gwaren.

The party entered the wood and followed the path that led across a shallow gorge and toward the silverite mine. Opposite the mine was a small Dalish camp, now deserted, all of its occupants killed including its leader, Velanna. Anders recalled the mage. She was strong and her magic as powerful as First Enchanter Irving's, but her spells were entirely destructive ones. She could shield herself with tree roots that sprung from the ground at her command, but she probably couldn't have healed a flea bite on a nug. How had a mage with her talent have let her friends die? Or had _she_ been the one to kill them so she could blame their deaths on humans?

"Hold," Aiden whispered. The group stopped and eased closer to the rock wall, out of sight of anyone who might be at the old Dalish camp. They heard footsteps. The camp wasn't deserted any longer. There were voices, male and female, in a brief, heated exchange. Then silence.

Aiden motioned for the others to follow, and he stealthily moved closer to the camp's entrance. The main path intersected with the path that led to the camp on the west and to the mine on the east. There was no other route to the mine. If luck were on their side, whoever was in the camp wasn't looking toward the path. The party inched along, none of them making a sound. They were within a few feet of the place where the paths crossed.

A man stepped out of the camp and intercepted the wardens.

"State your purpose," he demanded.

* * *

The Architect consulted his books, but he found nothing to explain how the old god's soul could have ended up in the human woman. Nor did he find anything about how he could release it from her. The only certainty was that he couldn't kill her until the soul was free. If he did, the fragile life in her womb would die, and the soul would die with it.

He went back to the laboratory. The commander was still unconscious. He wondered why Utha hadn't returned, but wasn't concerned. Unlike the elf, Utha was independent. She frequently patrolled the tunnels, and it was on one of those watches that she found a Qunari merchant who had taken refuge in the mine. Seranni's sister was known to attack anyone that passed through the wood. The Qunari had barely escaped her, only to be detained by a tainted dwarf. Utha brought the captive to her master. After hearing that the being was a trader, and with the three of them unable to freely move about outside the mine, the Architect let him live in exchange for the goods he provided. It was a profitable arrangement.

Seranni hadn't come back with her sister either. Again, the Architect was unconcerned. It may take some convincing to get the stubborn mage to come to the mine. The elder sister was ruled by anger and suspicion. The younger elf was of a mild spirit; he didn't doubt she would be able to influence her sibling. He was confident of his followers' abilities and their loyalty.

Seranni was devoted to him in a way that he found mildly disturbing. He knew nothing about male-female relationships and had no need of such, but he recognized that the young elf girl was possessive of him, and jealous of the Mother. Her preposterous fear of "losing" him was puzzling. He could not be "lost" in the way she thought. He could not be obtained, either. In spite of his appearance, intelligence, power of speech and reason, and his intentions, he was darkspawn. He lacked the capacity for emotion as Seranni felt, and he didn't fully understand why creatures fell victim to unnecessary, crippling things like feelings. He didn't comprehend the impatience and anger that Utha displayed. Even with her inability to speak, she made her emotions evident. He could read and understand her thoughts, but he couldn't fathom emotion.

A small sound caught his attention. The female warden was regaining consciousness. He could have put her back to sleep with a word, but he was curious about her and wanted to converse with her. Maybe she would be willing to tell him how she got the old god's soul. If she knew how it was done, she had no reason not to tell him. She would have to be put to death soon. What good were secrets to her? She could further his research—a beneficial endeavor to surface flesh creatures as well as darkspawn—if she were a reasonable human.

She tried to bring up a hand to massage her aching head, but she found her arms bound at the wrists. When she raised her head and attempted to sit up, a strap across her ribcage prevented movement. "What in the…"

"Be calm, Commander," the Architect said. "I had to restrain you. You would have tried to leave, and I must keep you here."

"What have you done to me, you monster?"

_The fury in her eyes is fascinating,_ he thought. _What a pity to lose her. She would have been a formidable ally._ "I've done nothing. You slept. Until the mage comes and assists me in removing the old god's soul from your body, you are safe."

"Thanks for that," she spat.

"I had hoped to avoid hostility," he said. "When I sent for you, my aim was to gain your trust and form an alliance between us. However, when I sensed that you bear the soul of an old god, I was compelled to change my goals. I require the soul, which is connected to you through your seed. When I remove the soul, your offspring will cease to be. The unavoidable, disagreeable result of my actions will be enmity between us, when I would have preferred to merge our strengths against a common foe. But, regardless of the cost, I must have the soul."

"What soul are you talking about? My _baby's_ soul?"

"It's not his soul, nor yours. He's an old god."

"That story again? I don't have any old god's soul—"

"But you do, Warden. I don't know how it came about, but your offspring has Urthemiel's soul. There, I see it in your reaction. You recognize that I'm speaking the truth."

"What you see is recognition of my wardens, and me looking forward to your death."

The Architect whirled around and surged forward, his hands outstretched toward the intruders. The human male that Utha had taken to the holding cell was free, and he was accompanied by a number of others surfacers. Arrows flew at him from two angles, some of them narrowly missing the warden-commander. She ordered them to keep firing no matter what.

"Kill him! Don't worry about me! Don't let him escape!" she shouted to them.

He put up a ward to deflect the arrows. To his surprise, the ward collapsed. Had the wardens talked Seranni into betraying him? Had she brought her sister, not to fight with him but against him? But no, Seranni wasn't there. He sensed her blood, but not her person. There was another mage among the attackers, a human. It was he who had counteracted the ward.

The Architect prepared to kill the mage first, then erect another ward to shield himself and his hostage when he brought the stone ceiling down on the intruders. His last thought, before white-hot agony pierced his body from back to front, was that the coveted soul, so close to being his, might escape. He collapsed to the floor, his blood pouring from a gaping wound where his heart used to be.

Aiden ran to Winter. "Are you alright? Did we hit you? Maker, that creature moved so fast it was hard to follow him. Let me check you over. Anders, get over here!"

"Loosen the straps," Winter said to him. "I'm unhurt. Get me off this torture table. He has followers we need to kill and I want to destroy this place before we leave."

Garavel reached her ahead of Anders, who had crouched beside the Architect's corpse to examine it. "Commander, you're alive! Thank the Maker." He unfastened the straps at her ankles and across her ribs. Aiden released her hands. When she was freed, she sat up and looked around the room at the faces. Almost all her wardens were there.

"Didn't I confine you to the keep?" she smiled at them, breaking the tension. A couple of them laughed; the rest heaved a collective sigh of relief that they had arrived in time.

Winter spoke to the stranger who had dealt her captor the killing blow. "Whoever you are, I owe you my life and a debt of gratitude." The man bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Exactly what did you do to him? If I didn't know for sure I hadn't been drugged, I would think I'd been hallucinating when I saw you drive your hand right through his body."

The man, a slim and handsome elf, smiled ruefully. "Perhaps I was overzealous, but he had it coming. The thought of a powerful mage like this one holding a helpless person captive…" As he spoke, his body emitted a blue glow. It was the same phenomenon Winter saw when the hand burst through the Architect's chest with the creature's heart clenched and smoldering in a fist.

"Overzealous? Not in this case," Winter answered. "I'm Winter, by the way."

The blue glow ceased. "As I surmised. I am Fenris. I happened upon your companions outside, and they persuaded me to assist with your rescue. Before their arrival I'd learned there was a magister here in the mine." He scowled at the Architect's inert form. "I detest mages."

"Hey now, not all mages are like that thing," Anders protested. "I can safely say that none of the mages I've met are _anything_ like him."

"You've led a sheltered life," Fenris replied.

Winter turned the conversation back to the Architect and his followers. "This creature is…was darkspawn. Intelligent, mutated darkspawn. I wasn't able to learn how he came to be, but I'd venture to say he was the first of his kind. He has two female followers, an elf and a dwarf. They assisted with his experiments and must be found and destroyed as well."

"He no longer has the elf," Fenris said. "I found her at the Dalish encampment nearby. She accused me of killing her sister and her friends, threatened to take me to her mentor, and when I refused to follow her she attacked me. I saw that she suffered from a form of corruption, so I ended her life. It was a more merciful death than she would have had otherwise."

"The dwarf is also dead, Commander," Garavel supplied.

Aiden confirmed it. "The captain here knows how to handle blades." He passed Garavel his longsword and placed Winter's swords and pack on the table. He had persuaded the Qunari merchant to return them. The creature didn't deal in stolen goods, he claimed. Aiden went on, "When we got here, that fool was planning to take this guy on all by himself." He poked at the Architect with his foot. "Not to sound ungrateful, Captain Gee, but that would have been suicide. What if you'd riled this creature up enough to hurt or kill the commander?"

"I think what he did was heroic," Mhairi cut in. Her comment drew questioning looks and a couple of knowing smiles. She flushed and looked away.

"He wouldn't have hurt her," Garavel answered, pretending he hadn't heard Mhairi's praise. "Not yet, anyway. I overheard him and his subordinates talking, but little of it made sense. He sent the elven girl to look for her sister, and the other one to lock me in the holding area." He explained how he'd managed to kill the dwarf.

"Impressive fighting," Aiden said. "About the elven girl… could she have been the missing sister the crazy elf mage raved about?"

"She was," Garavel nodded.

"So the crazy one was right. Her sister had been kidnapped."

"No, she wasn't kidnapped," Winter corrected him. "Even if she was originally taken by force, which I doubt, she stayed here by choice. Seems she didn't bother to say goodbye to her big sis before she left home to join up with the darkspawn."

"Elves," Nathaniel snorted. "I'll never understand them."

"Nor will I," Fenris agreed. The irony of his statement brought a few smiles to the wardens.

"Well, we're about done here," Winter said. "With the creature and his followers gone, I want his records searched before we torch his sick playhouse. Look for anything of value, and most importantly, anything he has on Grey Wardens. He experimented on our members to make those talking darkspawn. If that Qunari is still alive, let's see if he'll agree to move his shop to the Vigil. Business here in the mine is going to take a downturn."

"I'm afraid I must take my leave," Fenris said. "I'm on my way to Amaranthine to take ship to Kirkwall."

Winter answered him, "That's too bad. I could use a warden like you. Have you family in Kirkwall? Is your business so important that you can't stay here?"

"I have no family there. No acquaintances. I'm hunting down an enemy." He asked her, "Is your business here so important that you and your friends can't come to Kirkwall?"

"I'm afraid it is," she replied. "As much as I'd like to return the favor, I can't leave Amaranthine at this time. But one thing I can do…" She reached into her pack, retrieved a document, and held it out to Fenris. "Present this to the Kirkwall city guard. They'll let you into my house. It's yours for as long as you wish."

"I can't accept that," Fenris said.

"Yes you can. I owe you," Winter insisted. "Take the deed, please. I only own the house because I had to get rid of some gold."

"It must be nice to be too wealthy," Mhairi mumbled.

Winter went on, "There's a quantity of gold in an unlocked chest in the sitting room. Plenty enough to take care of any needs you may have. Help yourself to it." The grateful residents of the arling were generous with their rewards, and she had amassed a fortune in the past months. If Fenris spent every last copper she had in Kirkwall, she wouldn't miss it.

Anders spied the name on the deed. "Amell Estate. _Amell_? That's a family of mages."

Bryant added, "They lived in Lothering, but under a different name. Hawke, I think it was. No one knows what became of them, except that the father died. The Lothering templars learned the younger daughter was an apostate. To my knowledge, she was trained by her father to use and to hide her magic."

"Her father was an apostate and you let him run around free? For _decades_?"

"He escaped the tower long before I became a templar," Bryant explained. "He hid so well that the templars lost his trail entirely, and he was right under their noses."

"How is it that he could escape and stay free, and I get caught every time?"

"He didn't call attention to himself by openly criticizing templars and the chantry, Anders. He wore peasant clothing, not mage robes. He worked until he could afford to buy land, and he farmed to take care of his family. Nothing about him screamed out 'I'm an angry mage'."

"If you knew all this, why didn't you do your duty and chase them down?" Anders jeered.

"I was sent to Lothering to help get seventy-five refugees to safety during the blight," Bryant answered. "At the time, one apostate girl didn't seem important."

"About your Kirkwall house," Fenris said to Winter, interrupting the mage-templar debate. "It isn't a haven for mages, I trust."

"The house was vacant when I purchased it. I never met the owner, but I got a name: Gamlen Amell. You can check him out when you get there, if it matters to you. I was in Kirkwall for less than twenty-four hours and I had to lighten my burden. I bought the first house I saw for sale. End of story." Winter was weary of the mage-slamming. She considered their magic useful but wasn't going to express her opinion with Anders, Bryant, and Fenris around. Maybe it was best if the elf moved on. He would side with Bryant, and the two of them would be at odds with Anders. The last thing her group needed was more internal strife.

"Very well," Fenris said, "I'll accept your hospitality, but only out of need. I will find a way to repay your kindness."

"You already paid in advance," Winter chuckled. "I'm alive, my wardens are unharmed, and that monster is dead with a great big hole in his chest. That's payment enough."

Fenris thanked her again, she thanked him in return, and he left the mine. Winter thought he would have made a good warden… and what was that power he had? It wasn't like any magic she'd ever seen. He had odd markings on his skin of a silvery color that made him glow before an attack. Maybe they were the source of his power…?

Anders said, when the elf was gone, "Am I the only one who thinks that guy was an arse?"

A unanimous chorus of "yes" answered him.

* * *

Part 2 – Just When You Think It's Safe…

A mob of angry peasants was gathered outside the Vigil when we returned. Varel, Sigrun, and Sergeant Maverlies stood at the keep's entrance and tried to reason with them.

"What's going on?" I asked Varel.

"We're going to starve, that's what," a man responded.

Varel explained, "These people are under the impression that there won't be enough food to get them through the cold season. They're demanding access to the graneries. Maybe they'll listen to you. I can't convince them that there's nothing to worry about."

What could I say that Varel hadn't already told them? I started with, "There is more than enough food for everyone," and ended with, "If any of you have an immediate need, let the sergeant know and we'll provide you with food before you leave."

My short spiel placated them and they left, still murmuring. "Varel, has this happened before? What brought on such a baseless worry?"

"I'm dumbfounded, Commander. I have never seen them panic for no reason. If they'd come here expecting help against a darkspawn attack or raiders or bandits, I would understand it. But the fear of starvation, when there's nothing to indicate a food shortage..."

Garavel scoffed. "You were kinder to them than they deserved, Commander. The only way to handle a peasant uprising is to put it down hard."

"Sometimes they may leave us no choice," I replied. "But this time we were able to settle it without bloodshed. That's my preferred method of dealing with citizens."

We went inside the keep. The wardens went to their quarters, having earned a rest. I would follow suit as soon as I spoke with Varel. He, Garavel, and I went to the throne room. We were met by Amaranthine's wealthiest and most influential noble, Bann Esmerelle. She was wearing full armor, and everyone knew she was no warrior.

"Something we can help you with, Bann Esmerelle?" Varel asked her.

"You," she snarled at me. "You murdered the arl. You killed the best man I ever knew. Arl Rendon Howe."

"Howe was a traitor to Ferelden and a murderer," I answered.

"Rendon was good to us. He was good to _me_. And I will avenge his death with yours."

The unmistakable sound of a crossbow being cocked alerted us to the sniper's location. Varel shoved me out of the way and the bolt caught him in the arm. Garavel lunged for Esmerelle and slew her with a sword thrust to the chest. Arrows whizzed past my head. The treacherous bann had hired professional assassins to finish a job she couldn't properly start.

Varel was down but I was unhurt. I pulled my blades and slew the crossbow-wielding assassin. There were four in all. They'd evidently taken position in the room while we were out dealing with the peasants—a distraction that worked nicely for Esmerelle. Too bad she lay dead in a pool of blood and wouldn't see her plot brought to fruition.

Garavel killed the assassin nearest him. The other two fell before we could get to the far end of the room. I thought Sergeant Maveries or one of my wardens had heard the commotion and come to assist. Instead, a figure stepped out of the shadows.

His Antivan accent was unmistakable. "You and the Crows? Again? What must I do to prevent this, dear Warden?"

"Zev? I trust you're not with these fellows. You remember how badly that went last time."

"I do indeed." He glanced at the bodies. "These fools did not hear the story, it would seem, or they would not have taken the job. I, however, am glad they were as stupid as I once was. That is four less Crows I have to remove from my guild."

"_Your_ guild? Are you the leader now?"

He gave a gallant bow. "At your service. The Crows needed some restructuring, so I took it upon myself to depose the leadership—with a poisoned dagger, that is—and claim the position he'd so recently left vacant."

"Weren't you aware of the contract against me?" I asked suspiciously. How could he be the leader and _not_ know of it?

"You have me there. I knew of it, and I allowed them to walk into a deathtrap. But, to make sure they did no harm to my favorite Grey Warden, I followed them here. You never know when the services of a handsome elven assassin might come in handy, yes?" The door opened and the other wardens spilled in to see what had happened. "Speaking of handsome, I see Aiden is still with you."

"Speaking of poisoned daggers, you might want to keep your attraction to him a bit less obvious," I advised. "Aiden's not fond of you, and he likes women."

"Are you speaking from personal experience, I wonder?"

"No. We're friends. Nothing romantic or… otherwise."

"Oh yes, I remember now. Alistair is more to your liking, yes?"

"No he isn't. We're also just friends."

"I'm intrigued," he flirted. "That means you are single."

"It means you and I are _also_ just friends."

Zev laughed as if I'd told a joke, but he ceased his half-hearted trifling and he managed not to get caught eyeing my senior warden's physique. It would have been nice to have him stay and join us, or fight with us as Sigrun did—as an ally but not a warden—but he had other plans and had to return to Antiva. More people to kill, more scores to settle.

Nathaniel was looking down at Bann Esmerelle's body. He looked troubled. Angry, actually.

"I remember her," he said when I approached him. "I used to see her here often when I was a boy, whenever Mother was away."

I asked, not realizing the pile of horse manure I was stepping into, "Wasn't she a friend of the family?"

He scoffed. "No. She was rude to us kids. She sure wasn't Mother's friend. The two of them were like strangers even though they'd known each other from childhood and were schooled together. It was my father that Esmerelle came to visit. She was his mistress, and from what I'm recalling now, she wasn't the only one."

"I'm sorry, Nathaniel," I said. I really didn't know what to say to him. It was awkward.

He counted off a few names I didn't know—other women Rendon Howe dallied with behind his wife's back. "He hated Mother, and I still don't know why. She was a good woman. Her family was upset with her for marrying down. Father was a lesser nobleman, barely considered a noble because of his meager land holdings and his debts. Mother's family was wealthy. This keep was their land, not the Howe's. Mother inherited it, and when she died, Father inherited it from her. Mother's parents despised Father and I resented them for it. I didn't know…"

What was I supposed to say to this? Another "I'm sorry" didn't seem adequate. He was reliving old painful memories. The recent meeting with his sister Delilah had opened his eyes to his father's true nature, and he learned the facts about the assault on the Couslands. Rendon Howe envied the Couslands—supposedly his closest friends—and he coveted everything Teyrn Bryce Cousland had, including his wife. Now Nathaniel's own memories, repressed or distorted by his love for his father, were coming into focus.

A sudden inspiration hit me, and I hoped I wasn't about to make a complete fool of myself. "Let's take a walk, Nathaniel." We went out to the courtyard and to the amorer's stand. "Master Wade, do you have that bow ready? I gave it to you a couple of weeks ago."

"Bow… bow… Where did I put it? Herren, have you seen it?"

Herren snapped at him. "Did you misplace a priceless weapon because your head is always in the clouds, Wade?"

Nathaniel was impatient. "Is there a point to this, Commander? I'm not in the mood…"

"Please bear with me," I asked. "I have something for you that I think you'll appreciate."

The two dunces rummaged around until they found the bow, repaired and restrung, hanging in its proper place on a rack. Wade handed it to me like it was made of fine blown glass. "It's perfect," he said. "Better than new."

I passed it to Nathaniel. "Do you recognize it?"

His eyes widened. "This was my grandfather's bow! There's the Howe crest carved into the wood. I remember this…" His anger dissipated, replaced by awe. We found a seat and he talked about his grandfather, a Grey Warden, who had left home and never returned. Rendon resented him for it, but now that Nathaniel knew the truth, he was proud of him.

Until then I knew virtually nothing about Nathaniel, but we forged the start of a friendship that evening. Before we would part ways, we would become close as kin.

* * *

Things quieted down long enough for me to read the mail that had been piling up in the short time I'd been away. There was a missive from a noble about his kidnapped daughter. It must have arrived late. I tossed it in the 'finished tasks' pile. Another from Eddelbrek thanking me for the soldiers we'd sent to guard his farmland. More notes and letters from nobles in Amaranthine city complaining about the squatters outside the city walls; one from the chantry inquiring about a mage named Wynne (what was _she_ doing here?) who roamed about freely without any apparent connection to the Circle; two from merchants informing me they were holding our payment for various jobs we'd undertaken; and the four I'd set aside for last. One was from the palace, one from Sebastian, and the other two from Teagan.

I opened the letter from the palace. It bore the king's official seal. Penned by someone other than Alistair (I would have recognized his writing), it announced that His Majesty the King would be visiting Vigil's Keep for an update on our progress, the state of the Grey Wardens, and inspection of the keep in a few weeks. The letter was dated less than a week ago, so I figured we had about a month to get things in order for a royal visit.

Sebastian was back in the Kirkwall chantry as a brother. He had tried to rule Starkhaven but he found the life of a royal unfulfilling. His future had been dedicated to service to the Maker and Andraste, and he'd been a fool to abandon his vows for any reason—revenge or love. He wanted us to remain friends, as did I. _At last we agree!_ I laughed to myself.

Teagan's letters were predictably romantic. One message was an older one that arrived while I was en route to Redcliffe a couple of weeks ago (had it been that long? Or longer?) The other was written a day after I'd left him last. He asked (again) when I thought I'd be finished with my duties at the Vigil and could come home to Rainesfere. I thought it amusing that he'd specifically said 'Rainesfere' rather than Redcliffe, knowing how much I preferred the serene beauty of the orchards and nearby mountains to the activity of Redcliffe village. He asked about the baby, how the pregnancy was progressing, and he asked if I'd felt life yet.

'_Felt life'? As a matter of fact, I haven't felt anything at all. How far along was I?_ I calculated the time from the battle for Denerim. Nineteen weeks. I was upset with myself for not trying to learn something about pregnancy. Should I have felt movement by now? If so, why hadn't I? What if something had gone wrong? I skimmed the rest of the letter, the words barely registering. It read:

"_Eamon knows about us and that we are expecting a baby. If you have occasion to go to Denerim before you come home, don't let Eamon bully you. He's just being my overprotective big brother; he means no harm or disrespect."_

What Eamon knew didn't matter. At the moment, I didn't wonder how or why Eamon found out about our relationship, or why it might bother him. Nothing mattered except the baby. I shoved all the letters in my cupboard and went to find Anders.

I ran across Mhairi in the hallway. "You're beginning to show," she commented, indicating my rounded belly. It wasn't a big lump, but it _did_ show through my fitted dragonskin armor. "In another month, you'll have to get Master Wade to make you a cuirass with adjustable side straps. So, have you felt movement yet?"

"Not yet." Ignorant as I was, I asked her sheepishly, "When is the normal time for an expectant mother to feel the baby move? I'm not well informed on these things."

"From my… my mother's experience, she said she felt movement around the end of her fourth month. But bear in mind, in most cases it's difficult to tell when a pregnancy commenced."

_Not for me, it isn't. I know precisely when it 'commenced', down to the hour of day._

"Thanks, Mhairi. If you'll excuse me…" I brushed past her, more worried than before I'd asked about it.

Anders was in his quarters. I burst in without asking permission—something I wouldn't normally do. "Please, Commander, do come in," he jested. When I closed and bolted the door, he raised an eyebrow. "Well, this is rather sudden, don't you think? But who am I to say no?"

"Be serious, Anders. I need your services as a healer."

His demeanor changed and his fretting almost matched mine. "Why? What's wrong? Are you ill? Were you injured?"

"No, it's about the baby—"

He went into a list of maladies and frightening symptoms, none of which I'd had. "Maybe it would be better if you sit down, calm yourself, and tell me exactly what's going on. It will be quicker and I'm all out of guesses."

"I haven't… Well, the baby doesn't move, I think. How can I tell if it's still alive?"

He smiled indulgently, as if I were a little child. It wasn't unkind. Rather, he was reassuring me. "Winter, every woman is different. Some feel life quite early, others much later. But the baby moves as soon as it develops limbs. It's still tiny. Well, now that I look at your middle, maybe not as tiny as I thought. If I knew when you'd conceived, I could tell you the approximate size…"

"Forty-eight hours before the battle for Denerim," I supplied.

"Well," he laughed, "I can't recall ever treating a woman who knew the exact _time_ she conceived. Most can't tell me the week of it. You're an exceptionally… organized person."

"Please," I groaned. "No more jokes. I'm concerned."

"Nothing to be concerned about. Lie here," he pointed to his bed. "Come on, I'm not going to lay a hand on you."

I wasn't worried about that. What went through my mind was someone else barging in like I'd done, seeing me lying on his bed, and the firestorm of gossip that would follow.

"The door is bolted, remember?" he said. He was right; I'd forgotten it. "Nobody will know our little secret."

I stretched out and he passed his hands above my body. They shone with a pale blue glow. "Don't be shoving your hands through my insides like Fenris, alright?"

Anders laughed again. "It's good to see you can still joke. I'm not a freak like that elf, and my powers are mostly for healing." He hovered over my growing womb. "Everything is fine. Your boy is growing and developing normally. If you haven't felt movement yet, you will soon. He's moving right now. Are you sure you feel nothing?"

"No. I was so afraid, I got butterflies in the pit of my stomach," I frowned.

"Dear Commander, that's not butterflies, as you call it. It's the baby moving," Anders said, to my unspeakable relief. "As he grows, the flutters will become stronger. Perfectly normal pregnancy." He confided, assuming his court jester mood again, "You know, if you'd come to me before you got yourself into this predicament, I could have helped you avoid it."

"You can do something to prevent pregnancy? Preposterous," I huffed.

"My dear girl, all mages develop that talent as soon as we reach a certain age," he said. I didn't know if he was telling the truth or joking again. "If we didn't, the tower would have been overrun with little magelings." He lowered his voice. "Don't tell Bryant about that, okay? He'll get word to Cullen, and that fanatical mage-hater will probably build a separate tower for the women so he can take away the one last semblance of a normal life."

"Thank you, Anders. That took a load off my mind."

"What did? The news that you're perfectly healthy, or that I can help you prevent this happening in the future?"

"The first one. I'm not sure I believe you can prevent conception. It sounds like something a mage would tell a woman to convince her to lie with him."

He looked appalled. "What a terrible thing to say! I'd never… No upstanding mage would ever do that." His slip sounded more contrived than accidental.

"Before I go," I began, changing the subject before he got carried away, "how is Varel doing? He took an arrow for me. I'd feel terrible if he lost the use of his arm."

"He was lucky. It went through muscle but didn't break a bone. He'll be slinging his greatsword around again in no time."

"Thanks again. I'm glad I conscripted you."

"That makes one of us."

At the risk of sounding ungrateful, I wasn't in the mood to listen to his complaints about being confined, cooped up, caged, or whatever his word of the day was. I liked Anders and I owed him my life, but that didn't mean I had to listen to him go on and on about templars and towers and freedom. I got out of his room before anyone knew I'd been there.

* * *

At dinner that evening, I sat with Aiden and Bryant. We discussed the Architect and the creature we'd heard references to called 'the Mother'.

"What do you think it is?" Bryant asked. "Is there a female version of the Architect running loose out there?"

"It's a broodmother," I answered. I had to explain what a broodmother was, as I'd explained to Varel not long ago. Bryant was also fortunate enough never to have run across one. His reaction was the same as Varel's. He was speechless.

"Maker…" was as far as he got.

"If this Mother is anything like the Architect, we can expect another organized attack sooner or later. The first attack on the Vigil was a botched attempt by the Architect to collect Grey Warden blood for his experiments. The Mother, from what I understand, isn't as intelligent as the Architect was, but she is more dangerous. She doesn't want our blood. She wants us wiped out."

"There's a fine welcome-to-Amaranthine attitude," Aiden quipped. "Speaking of welcomes, did you notice the couple cozying up in the corner?" He pointed over his shoulder to the far corner of the dining hall. It was the darkest spot in the room in the evenings. There, at a small table, sat Garavel and Mhairi. They were engrossed in conversation.

"Good for them," I remarked. "If they can find happiness out here, they deserve it. Garavel's a good man."

"I thought she was going to go for Bryant," Aiden grinned.

"Sorry. Vows," Bryant answered. "I hadn't intended to break them, but especially now, with the taint and a short life span, it's pointless."

"Romancing a beautiful woman is never pointless. Helluva way to go through life, my friend, but if that's how you want it…"

Bryant came back with, "I thought _you_ and Mhairi had something going on for a while. What happened? Did your jokes bore her?"

Aiden didn't react as I expected, with a witty comeback. Instead he said, "Mhairi's an attractive woman. I liked her, and I guess she liked me too, but... I don't know. I can't put my finger on a specific reason, but nothing developed between us. It never would have. We're fellow wardens, but that's it." He shrugged. "Anyway, I'm happy for her if she and Garavel hit it off."

* * *

Garavel was flattered by Mhairi's attention. She was beautiful and kind, and for whatever reason, she found him appealing. He didn't think of himself as the romantic type, but when she came to his defense at the Architect's lair, he felt pretty heroic.

"Tell me about yourself," he urged her. She told little except where she hailed from. Gwaren. The little port village on the southeastern edge of the country that was elevated to a teyrnir when the late King Maric promoted Loghain to teyrn. Possibly not the king's smartest choice.

"And what of you?" Mhairi asked. "I thought a man like you would have a family."

She was hinting—boldly—that she wanted to know if he was married. "I don't," he answered simply, not wanting to rip the scab off old wounds.

His wife had died during the blight. He hadn't been home to protect her, and he couldn't forgive himself for leaving her defenseless while he was out saving strangers. They had planned to start a family as soon as the blight was over.

Both Garavel and his lovely Jilliane wanted children, lots of them. He'd thought he might retire from the army when the threat had passed and the land was safe. A talented weaponsmith, he would start his own business wherever they settled. Their home was in a small community in the plains between Denerim and Redcliffe, north of the Drakon River. It was Ferelden's no-man's land. To ply his trade successfully, the couple planned to move to Denerim as soon as he'd completed his tour of duty. Before he could, the darkspawn raided the village and slaughtered every living soul.

"I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?" Mhairi asked innocently.

She couldn't have known. He didn't want to brush her off; he liked her. But the emotional wounds were raw and bleeding again. Garavel didn't want her to see his pain.

"No, you did nothing wrong. I just remembered something I need to tend to. If you'll excuse me." Without waiting for her answer, he rose from the table and walked away.

* * *

News of the Architect's demise reached the Mother. She was overjoyed that her archenemy had been slain by her other archenemies, the Grey Wardens. With one out of the way, she could move against the wardens.

A little more than three weeks after we killed the Architect, we received a frantic request for help from Constable Aidan. Amaranthine was under attack by darkspawn, and they had breeched the city walls.

"Anders, Nathaniel, and Garavel, grab your weapons. You three are with me. Aiden, you take Mhairi, Sigrun, Justice, and Bryant. We'll go in two separate groups. Hopefully, we can travel faster if we break up into teams. Whoever reaches the city first, talk to the constable, assess the situation, but wait for me to give the final order. Let's go. We have a city to save."

Sigrun piped up. "Commander, what about Oghren? He's still in the dungeon."

"Maker's blood, I forgot all about him," I muttered. "Varel, have the guard release Oghren from the dungeon. I'll need him in Amaranthine. Quickly, please."

Aiden's party was ready to depart. "Go," I said. "Don't wait for us. Find the constable and see what's going on, but don't go into the city. I'll be there as soon as I can. Be careful, because we don't know what we're walking into."

"We'll see you there," Aiden said. He was comfortable with leadership. I had to wonder why he chose to follow me all this time instead of taking the lead from the outset, before our joining. "You be careful too," he added. "Darkspawn scouting parties will be further out from the city. You're bound to run into any that we don't kill on the way."

Oghren took his time coming up from the dungeon, and he was spitting mad for being left there for so long. I apologized, but he wasn't having it. His tantrum wasn't high on my list of priorities. "Grab your battleaxe and take your hostility out on darkspawn. We can settle our differences later."

We set out for Amaranthine city, unaware of the holocaust that awaited us there.


	21. On the Losing End

On the Losing End

Part 1 – The Death of a City

* * *

You don't know how large the arling of Amaranthine is until you have to go from Vigil's Keep, located near the center, to Amaranthine city on the northern coast, in the least time possible. Normally a few hours' walk, it felt like we trudged for weeks. The need to hurry was one thing; not knowing what to expect when we got there was worse; having an irate, rude dwarf nipping at my heels (no pun intended, honest) exacerbated an already tense situation.

Yes, I'd forgotten about Oghren in the dungeon. _Sorry, Oghren, I was indisposed—strapped to the Architect's experimentation table, listening to him go on about killing my unborn baby, trying to keep up an act of bravado while inwardly terrified out of my wits._ If it made me forget the little troublemaker in lockup, one would think I'd get a pass on that one, right? Wrong.

Here's an example of what I was subjected to on the way to the city: "What kind of 'commander' locks up one of her few warriors in the dungeon over a little tiff? I'll tell you what kind. The kind that doesn't know what they're doing and has no business leading. If a soldier can't have a few ales and unwind, he's not in the army. He's in a sodding prison." Then there was, "I wonder what kind of 'influence' the warden-commander used on ol' King Alistair to get her post? Does he know he's going to be a daddy?" And the best was, "Back in Orzammar, casteless women who had sex with their betters were given titles, too. But they weren't called 'commander'. They were called 'mistress'. Well, that was what the noble _men_ called them. Noble women called them 'whore'. You know what the highest honor a mistress could reach? Getting pregnant with a noble's kid."

Nobody bothered to answer him. We saved our breath for the march. Going double-time took all my energy; keeping the pace while ignoring muscle fatigue took concentration. Then there was the emotional toll—hoping to reach the city while it still had survivors, praying it hadn't been overrun, worrying for the people we'd met on our visits to Amaranthine. Constable Aidan was a capable man, but he and his guards weren't equipped to deal with darkspawn. It wasn't that the physical act of fighting darkspawn differed from fighting other men. They fought as we did and used similar weapons. It was the _shock_ of seeing the hideous creatures, hearing the scream of the shrieks and witnessing the strength of ogres, that made the battles unlike normal warfare. When one first saw darkspawn, no amount of prior information or description could adequately prepare a person for the horror. A soldier who froze in disbelief, while his brain struggled to accept the message his eyes were sending, gave the enemy enough time to overpower and kill him. That was what I feared had happened in Amaranthine.

The reality was much worse.

We saw Aiden's party when we were a few miles out from the city. They were fighting a band of darkspawn led by one of the talking creatures. Among the monsters was a kind of darkspawn I'd not seen before. They looked like large, multi-legged worms. Flesh-eating worms. They wielded no weapon; they had no hands to hold anything. They simply knocked down their opponent and commenced eating them alive. Less intelligent than the average genlock, they attacked their own as often as one of my wardens.

"What in oblivion are those?" Nathaniel voiced the question we were all asking ourselves.

The Architect would not create such creatures. His aim was to evolve darkspawn into a free, intelligent race. The worms were a leap backwards. They were eating machines, in a sense. Unthinking and indiscriminate, tending to one basic need: eating. Their hunger was insatiable. As they ate, they grew before our eyes.

"The Mother's new brood?" Garavel proffered. "This could be what the Architect meant when he spoke of her insanity and the need to kill her before she destroyed everything he'd worked to achieve."

"Maybe," I answered. Since I'd spent most of my captivity unconscious, I wasn't aware of much of the chatter between my captors. One thing I was sure of, though, was that the Architect created the talkers. Their grammar was primitive but they got their message across. The fact that they could talk at all was—and I hesitate to use this word—miraculous. If the Mother was insane, and if her purpose was to ruin the Architect's work and kill the Grey Wardens, then this kind of darkspawn was actually a brilliant invention. They were no-maintenance, efficient killers.

They had a stench about them, but not typical darkspawn "rotting corpse" stink. Since they were mixed with regular and talking darkspawn, which had the old familiar funk, it was hard to distinguish one odor from another. But my sensitive pregnant-woman's sense of smell picked up something foul and insectile, like bug droppings in inestimable quantity. The malodor combined with the _idea_ of insects, worms, and piles of droppings made me queasy (another byproduct of the heightened senses I could have done without).

When the last of the enemy was dead, we took a minute catch our breath and look northward to the city. From this distance, we could make out the city walls, and saw dark smoke rising from that direction.

Justice observed, "These creatures were out here to slow us down. The city could already be full of them, and worse."

"We already know the creatures breeched the walls," Mhairi said. "I pray the civilians were able to get to the chantry and barricade themselves inside in time."

Bryant added his thoughts. "The people outside the walls, the ones the nobles complained about… what of them? They would have been the first ones hit. These things…" He trailed off, gesturing toward the wormlike beasts. He didn't have to finish the sentence. We knew what horrific fate could have befallen the homeless.

"There were children out there too," I groaned.

"I'm starving," Oghren put in, being his usual uncaring self. "How about we use this break for something besides jabbering and cook up some non-tainted meat?"

"Sorry, I'm fresh out of spirit bear," Anders answered. He was annoyed because he'd been pulled from a serious conversation with Justice. I wasn't aware the two had become close.

"That's alright," Oghren said. "But if you conjure something else, try conjuring it already cooked since we're in such a hurry to get to a sacked city."

"We don't know that it's been sacked, you heartless, selfish ass," Aiden snapped.

Another small war was brewing between my wardens. Sigrun was the only one who understood Oghren. Putting them on the same team might help him switch his anger from me to the darkspawn, if only to impress his lover. "Oghren, join Aiden's party. Justice, come with me. No bickering, no wasting time. Let's move," I urged them.

Anders and Justice were locked in conversation again. From what I overheard, Justice was asking Anders why mages didn't try to "throw off their oppressors", that is, templars. He didn't fully understand the role and necessity of templars, and Anders might have overstated his case against them, but what harm could come from their discussion? We had more urgent matters to tend to than the ongoing war between Anders and the Circle.

Constable Aidan and two of his officers met us at the city's entrance, in the area where the poor and homeless once camped. The only signs of life were darkspawn. Before we could ask what was going on inside the walls, we came under attack. There were more of the wormlike creatures; larger, mature ones with long, multiple arms that grasped their prey in an inescapable hold while the monsters devoured them alive.

The constable had taken up a crossbow, firing bolts and targeting the worms. Over the din, I heard him refer to them as either 'childers' or 'children'. If these things were children, the Mother must have been unspeakably grotesque in appearance and wholly evil in her intent. No "tits and tentacles" jokes from Oghren this day. The Mother might be similarly equipped, but she was more odious than the broodmother we'd killed in the Dead Trenches.

We'd almost won the battle outside the gates when we heard an ogre's roar. The beast came from within the city, and it was covered in armor. One of the talking darkspawn directed it to attack us.

An ogre in its natural state is a fearsome thing. It was an ogre that picked up King Cailan, as if he were a toy, and crushed the life out of him with one enormous hand. Add armor to its tough hide and you end up with a walking battering ram with opposable thumbs.

Its horns were covered by the metal helmet so it didn't charge at us. Instead, it was more inclined to crush, stomp, and hurl projectiles at us. We surrounded it and attacked from every angle, with blades and arrows and fire spells. The darkspawn leader sent a party of shrieks to distract us. Their cries had the ability to stun victims while they stabbed and slashed with those fearsome knifelike hands. Aiden's mabari Alduin had a less offensive-sounding howl that could also stun, but we'd unwittingly left him back at the Vigil in our rush to leave. We could have used him in this battle. Right now, Anders' cat would have been a welcome addition to the fight.

The ogre targeted Oghren. We shouted warnings to him but he was busy fighting shrieks, and there were too many for him to kill. The ogre reached for him. Justice, closest to him, leapt forward and shoved the dwarf out of the way. The ogre's hand closed around Justice instead.

In one of those terrible instances where time slows to a frame-by-frame horror show, the ogre grabbed Justice—in Kristof's decomposing body—and pulled him apart, separating his top half from his bottom half at the waist. Bryant and Sigrun continued hacking at the ogre's heels and tendons. The creature flung the remains of Justice/Kristof away and tried to keep its balance. Dark, foul-smelling blood gushed from its lower legs. Unable to walk, it tottered and shook, staggering about. Oghren was still stunned, sitting on the ground where he'd fallen after Justice pushed him. The ogre was ultimately felled by a crossbow bolt to the face, the stout arrow boring into the opening beneath its helmet. The bolt drove it backward, and it fell on top of Oghren.

The dwarf wasn't lucky enough to have two narrow escapes in a single battle. The heavy ogre, made heavier still with its armor, crushed Oghren with a crunching, splattering sound—snapping bones, crumpling armor, mashing internal organs to paste. The beast tried to get up and we saw what was left of Oghren, unrecognizable in death. Sigrun screamed his name. Mhairi caught her by the arms to prevent her from running to her dead lover's side. The ogre fell to its back again, weakly grasping for the bolt in its head before it expired.

_Andraste's blood, two wardens killed in seconds… _

The leader, with the primary objective of its mission accomplished and its warriors dead, vanished into the ground like a mist. There were no survivors coming from the city. Behind those thick walls, nothing stirred. Or rather, nothing that was still _human_. Amaranthine was lost. Constable Aidan and one of his officers survived only because they were outside the city. The second officer had been skewered by shrieks and bled to death.

"What can we do now, Commander?" the constable asked. He'd just seen the whole population of his city killed, or tainted and dying a slow, painful death. The chantry, which was thought to be the safest place in Amaranthine, had its doors battered down and the nobles hiding within were slaughtered with no other exit for escape.

"Burn it," I answered. "There's nothing to save, so let's not leave it as a hideout for darkspawn. If any survive in there, burn them."

"No!" It was Justice's voice; I was sure of it. I looked around, but Justice was dead, lying in two pieces where the ogre had thrown him.

_That's strange. I must be wishing I could hear him._

"Are you sure you're making the right decision?" Anders asked. His voice was deeper, probably from smoke inhalation. "There could be survivors in the city."

Constable Aidan said, "The attack started last night. Within hours, more than half the citizens were dead, and every one I saw still living had been tainted. I watched people being eaten alive by those… those childers. There is no one left to save."

"Even if there's one living person…"

"No, Anders. You heard the constable. He was here; we weren't. I trust his word." He wasn't convinced, but he was outvoted. I thought to let Garavel take care of it, but reconsidered. It was a nightmarish chore; no one should have to bear what was really _my_ responsibility. I helped the constable and his officer fire flaming arrows into the city. Anyone who wanted to help could do so, but I wouldn't order anyone to fire on Amaranthine. Garavel, Aiden and Nathaniel helped without hesitation. Bryant, after a short prayer for the dead, picked up a bow from a fallen soldier and commenced firing. Mhairi and Anders wanted no part of it. Sigrun was in shock. She stood near the dead ogre, staring at the pool of blood that oozed from beneath its back.

The city was engulfed in flames when we left. The stone walls would stand, but they would be charred black for decades to come. Whatever the darkspawn hadn't burned became kindling for the destruction of a generations-old city, and the city itself a graveyard for her history and her people.

* * *

The mood at the Vigil was somber. The keep had suffered her own battle with darkspawn and lost all but a handful of her residents. The survivors knew how deadly the creatures could be. Amaranthine hadn't been able to throw off her attackers in time. We couldn't get there quickly enough. I felt I'd failed the arling. No one at the Vigil uttered a word of reproach—not when I was in earshot, anyway—and most voiced their support of my decisions.

Constable Aidan and his officer, Lieutenant Mayer, accompanied us to the Vigil. Both men, having lost everything, including their families, wanted to become wardens. I asked Varel to prepare for their joining. There was a feeling of disquiet in my gut, but I attributed it to the aftershock of losing a city and two of my wardens.

Sigrun asked to speak with me alone. I didn't like to hold meetings in my quarters, being a private person, so we went to a quiet room in the keep's basement area. She launched in with, "You never liked him. I guess you're glad he's dead."

"What? You brought me out here to throw guilt around? I don't need this, Sigrun." I started to walk out but she stopped me.

"Wait. I won't apologize for what I said because I know you didn't get along. Maybe you're not _glad_ he's dead, but you didn't value him. It's not like you lost Aiden or Mhairi or any of the others. They matter to you." She calmed somewhat and admitted, "Oghren resented you, too. He was a good friend to me, but he wasn't a very good person. Still, I cared for him."

"For the record, we got along well enough before I became warden-commander," I told her. "He wasn't my favorite companion, it's true. We got on each other's nerves. But I respected his ability to swing a battleaxe, and his fearlessness."

"Fearless," she repeated. "Yes, he was. You know, when a Legionnaire senses his death coming, he feels joy because he's going to be returning to the stone with the highest honor. All I felt, the whole time we were in Amaranthine, was fear. I didn't fear for Oghren or anyone else. I was afraid of dying."

I wondered why they hadn't called themselves "Legion of the Demented". No one in his right mind looks forward to death, especially death by being devoured alive or poisoned with tainted blood.

"I saw his face when the ogre was falling toward him," she continued. "He wasn't afraid. He wasn't surprised. He just… accepted it, like it was expected." She thought on it. "I suppose I'm the one who's feeling guilty, and I wanted to project it onto you."

"There's nothing to feel guilty about," I said. "If there is, the guilt is mine. I gave the orders."

She countered, "I reminded you he was in the dungeon. If I hadn't, he would still be alive."

"Well, it's done, Sigrun. Rethinking everything won't undo what happened. Trust me, I have enough regret for the lot of us. Don't torment yourself with a list of what if's."

"I'm ready to become a warden," she announced. "In Oghren's memory."

I asked her if she were sure, then if she were _really_ sure she wanted to go through the joining. She knew the risks. Varel had explained the whole process to her, she told me.

"If that's what you want, I'll have Varel prepare for three recruits."

"It's what Oghren would have wanted."

For her, that was reason enough. My own reasons for becoming a warden weren't the most noble. Back then, I was ready to die. If I'd known where I'd be nineteen months later, I might have done things differently. Not that I regretted it entirely, mind you. There was happiness along with the sorrow. I'd made good friends and met the man I loved. I wouldn't have had those opportunities if I'd stayed in the Free Marches, hadn't come to Ferelden, hadn't met Duncan, and hadn't become a Grey Warden.

"As you wish," I relented. "But do it for yourself, Sigrun. Become a Grey Warden because it's what you want to do, not what someone else may have wanted for you."

"My mind is made up, and my reasons are what they are," she said.

_Her stubbornness could be what she needs to get through her grief. It was the same crutch I used, and it worked for me._

"Let's get back to the keep and I'll inform the seneschal to prepare for one more. Quickly, before we miss it."

She laughed. "The seneschal wouldn't hold a joining without you being present. You _know_ he wouldn't."

_She just needed to talk it out. Her cheerful disposition has returned._

Varel made ready for the three new recruits. My anxiousness continued while I waited for him to complete the preparations. He recited the joining prayer and handed the chalice to Lieutenant Mayer. The man drank. His eyes rolled to whites, he dropped the cup, raised a hand to his throat, and choked before collapsing face-first on the floor. He was the first recruit I'd lost in the joining.

"I'm sorry, Mayer," Varel said to the corpse. He refilled the chalice and passed to Constable Aidan. "From now on, Aidan, you are a Grey Warden." Aidan took the cup from him. Time slowed again. I feared what was coming and I wanted to swat the chalice from his hand to stop him from drinking, but I wasn't allowed to interfere during the joining for any reason. Like with Mayer, Aidan died from the poisoned blood.

Varel and I would mourn them later. There was still one more to go. "Sigrun, step forward," Varel said. My insides were in knots, and I imagined hers were too. I wasn't afraid during my joining but watching others go through it was torment.

Sigrun was composed. She'd made peace with herself and her fears. She took the chalice and drank. Her eyes rolled to whites, she coughed and choked, and then she passed out.

"She will live, Commander," Varel said. "Thank the Maker."

This had been my worst day since the massacre at Ostagar. I'd lost two wardens, two recruits, and an unknown number of civilians. An entire city was in flames, and it would be uninhabitable for years. Worse, the Mother was still out there. No one knew where she was, but it was up to me to find her and kill her, along with any remaining talking darkspawn and those flesh-eating childers, as quickly as I could. She was more dangerous by far than the Architect.

The Architect's original goal wasn't a bad one. He wanted to elevate his race beyond their primal instincts. But despite his intelligence, he lacked something. All darkspawn lacked it. They had no souls. They could be taught to speak and to react in a programmed manner; they could evolve, but they wouldn't know what it was to _feel_. The Architect learned that Utha and Seranni had been killed, but he showed no reaction because he felt nothing for them. At best, he may have had a tickle of regret over losing his two assistants, but they weren't companions as my wardens were to me. He and his kind were incapable of grief, love, remorse, or any other emotion. For that reason, I believed, regardless of how 'evolved' they might have become, there was nothing to prevent them from reverting to their old ways.

* * *

News of the fall of Amaranthine reached Denerim. King Alistair was incensed that the wardens, especially the warden-commander, had allowed it to happen. He summoned Eamon to send a message to the Vigil, then thought better of it. He would go there personally and speak to Winter.

_She had better have a good explanation_, he thought. _Those were my people. They counted on me to keep them safe. Her failure will be seen as _my_ failure._

To those who didn't know the king, his thoughts may have seemed selfish. In reality, Alistair was the most selfless monarch Ferelden had ever known. He was raised to be humble and the lessons stayed with him even now, when he had the power to do as he pleased. What mattered to him were his country, its citizens, and the dignity of the Grey Wardens. The fall of Amaranthine was a devastating blow to all three of those concerns. A major trade city was gone, her people killed, and the wardens were being blamed for it. Winter was the Hero of Ferelden; she would weather the criticism better than the rest of the order. But, in Alistair's thinking, she was the leader and should have more blame than the others.

His duties kept him at the palace for another two weeks. He was anxious to go to the Vigil but first he had to deal with the nobles and their bannorns. Arl Teagan, Teyrn Fergus Cousland, and the banns to the west of Highever stayed away from Denerim and continued to care for their lands and people themselves, having received little damage from the war. The banns nearest the main battle were demanding more help from the palace with reconstruction, which was going slowly. Denerim and its surrounding lands were months from complete restoration.

During this time his anger at Winter subsided and he was left brooding. How had it come about? There was the darkspawn threat in the arling; he was aware of it, but how had it gotten so far out of hand that it cost Ferelden an important city? While Vigil's Keep was restored—in its present state it was nigh impregnable—a walled city was left defenseless. When he sent Winter there, it wasn't to take care of one at the expense of the other. She was more than the commander; she was the arlessa of Amaranthine. Its fate should have mattered to her.

Conversely, he had witnessed the arling's darkspawn problem firsthand. Seneschal Varel told of a new kind of darkspawn that _talked_. The creatures couldn't have acquired the power of speech on their own. He'd seen and slain hundreds of them, and they were all ignorant beasts with a single-minded purpose to destroy. Some sinister was going on in Amaranthine. There was a force behind the monsters, and Winter and her wardens had yet to eradicate the cause of the problem.

When his business with the banns was finally done, he told Eamon to prepare for a trip to the Vigil. "I expect we'll be there for a few days at the least. I want to know exactly what happened at Amaranthine, and why, and what can be done to help the survivors recover from their losses. If there _are_ any survivors. We leave tomorrow at first light."

"As you wish, Your Majesty," Eamon said. The regent wasn't privy to the timing of his brother's affair with the warden-commander, but it had been some months. She might have more to explain to the king than the disaster of Amaranthine. In all likelihood, her pregnancy would be too evident for her to cover with loose clothing. Regardless of her feelings for the king, Alistair still pined for her. He would know she'd found someone else, but Maker help them all if he learned _who_ she'd found.

* * *

Part 2 – Awkward Reunions

"What are you doing here again? I have enough to handle without being subjected to your preposterous demands." I didn't like Morrigan popping in on me _at all_, but her timing couldn't have been worse (or so I thought). I'd spent another sleepless night reliving the loss of my wardens, recruits, and Amaranthine. Time hadn't lessened the sorrow and I was in no mood to talk to _anyone_, much less a crazy swamp witch who thought she was an old god or a dragon or Maker-knows-what.

"Our talk was not concluded to my satisfaction," she answered, as if her lack of closure would persuade me to continue this tête-à-tête.

"You'll not be satisfied with my answer today either," I said. "If you've come to try to persuade me to hand over my child, you're wasting your time and mine."

"I _must_ convince you somehow. You cannot know the urgency of my cause. This is bigger than you and your baby, Winter. Your decision affects—"

"I don't care, Morrigan. I don't want to hear any more of your nonsense. Go, take your end-of-the-world stories with you, and leave me alone. My final answer to you is no. I will not give you my child. I will not change my mind, not ever, and not under any circumstances."

"Winter, be rational. We were friends once. Based on that alone, I urge you to reconsider. If you do not, you will be forcing me to act in a way I would prefer not to."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"Meaning that I will have the child, with or without your consent."

We eyeballed each other like two tomcats in a territory dispute. My voice came out as a low growl (not unlike a tomcat). "Don't think you can threaten me or my baby, witch. If I have to kill you over and over, in whatever form you take, you will not take my child from me."

She countered with, "Do not think yourself all-powerful, mortal. I have the will and the means to take what I require from you."

"Oh, so it's 'mortal' now, is it?" I scoffed. "Well, mighty Immortal One, we've had this argument before. If you could do something, you would have done it. You don't scare me. If anything, I pity you because you're mentally damaged. You believe your own lies. All your "save the world" crap is just that—crap. You want a child for something other than a fictitious dragon war. I can't fathom why it has to be _my_ child, though. Why don't you go make your own baby? You're hardly above sleeping with any man who's available, as we both know."

My insult didn't faze her. She'd probably heard a lot worse in her lifetime. "Once again you miss the point because of your stubbornness. Deny the truth if you wish, but it will not alter it. I have no desire for a useless mortal child. It _must_ be yours because of the soul—"

"The soul of the old god. Yes, I know. I've heard it enough, and I've had enough of you for one lifetime. Kindly get your annoying arse out of my quarters and out of my keep, and close the door when you leave. Unless you plan on flying out the window again."

My door opened and Aiden leaned in. "Heads up, Commander. King Alistair himself has graced us with a visit, and he's asking for you. 'Demanding' would be a better word for it." He noticed my visitor, but didn't recognize her. "Beg pardon, my lady."

"She's hardly a lady," I said. "Aiden, come in. Quickly, before Alistair gets here." He obliged me, looking surprised at the way I'd referred to my guest. "You may not recognize your old flame, Morrigan. Maybe her new face and her conservative style of dress threw you off."

A few beats of time passed while Aiden processed the information. Then he said in a flat tone, "Impossible. I saw her die."

"And you saw her turn into a bird," I reminded him. "She wasn't dead. It was a witch-trick, doubtless something she learned from her mum Flemeth. She's taken on this form. I'm not sure if she possessed some poor mage or fashioned the body herself."

"Hello Aiden," Morrigan said, as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired between them and like she hadn't heard anything I'd just said.

Aiden was more confused than before. She didn't look like Morrigan as he remembered her—and he'd seen a lot more of her than anyone else… except Alistair—but she sounded like her. It was her voice, no mistaking it. Instead of the beautiful brunette he remembered, this woman was pretty but not remarkably so, with brown hair and golden eyes. The eyes… Morrigan's eyes. Disbelief gave way to acceptance, then disgust. "Go to oblivion, whore," he said, then he dismissed her as if she weren't there. He said to me, "Alistair is in the throne room. You'd best hurry. He's in a temper today."

When Aiden had gone, I said to Morrigan, "It's your turn to leave. I have official warden business to tend to, and to which you are excluded." Before I could continue or she could respond, the door swung open again, and Alistair's voice came from the doorway.

"I need to have a talk with you, Warden-Commander." From his tone, I surmised it wasn't going to be a friendly chat. "About Amaranthine."

_No, definitely not a friendly chat. He wants answers I can't supply._

My back was to the door. When I turned round to give him the obligatory one-knee bow, he saw my bulging belly. I was in my sixth month and there was no hiding it any longer. Whatever words he had ready to blast at me caught in his throat. The only sound in the room was a faint snicker. It came from Morrigan, who found the situation amusing.

He recovered from his shock enough to extend a hand to help me up. "Winter," he said in a whispery wheeze. It was all he could say. His eyes were glued to my belly.

"Congratulations are in order, I suspect," Morrigan said.

Alistair glanced at her, not recognizing her nor comprehending her meaning. He assumed she referred to his rise to the throne. _There _is_ something familiar about the stranger_, he thought_. _He gave her a curt nod to acknowledge her regards and turned his eyes to me. "We need to speak." He added, politely but firmly, "Alone."

"Don't mind me," she said in high humor. "We're practically all family, aren't we, Winter?"

Alistair became impatient with the woman's impertinence. "Who is this, and what is she going on about?" His comments were directed at me. "Please tell me this isn't another apostate you recruited." The stranger's voice had a familiar, demeaning tone. He peered at her more closely. The yellow eyes… Only two women had such wicked, soulless eyes, and this woman wasn't Flemeth. "Morrigan," he spat.

"Ah, so you do remember," she said.

"Actually I _don't_ remember, and I thank the Maker every day for that," he retorted.

"Hmm, yes, I had assumed that since you were a templar, you were used to lyrium. I used a little too much. Here, let me restore your memory…"

"No!" Alistair said, but before his protest reached her ears, she made a small gesture and every moment of that regrettable night came back to him with full clarity. He flinched at the mental images. "Maker… I think I'm going to be sick."

His claim that there was no sex between him and Morrigan was a product of wishful thinking, selective memory, or lyrium hallucination. It would have been more merciful to him if Morrigan had left him oblivious to the reality of that night, but she wasn't known for her kindness, was she?

Morrigan clucked in mock disappointment. "That's not very kind, Majesty. And 'twould seem you recovered your strength quickly enough. Winter's expanding womb is proof of that."

_Shut up shut up shut up!_

Alistair looked at me, uncomprehending. "Do you know what she's talking about?"

I shrugged. "Who _ever_ knows what she's talking about? Morrigan, it's time for you to go. _Now_."

The witch's eyes lit up with delighted revelation. "Of course. _He's_ not the father! Two parents of the taint wouldn't have worked. The father is an untainted man. But the best part is this, dear _hypocritical_ Winter: While you pretended to be indignant over Alistair bedding me, you went and found a replacement." At Alistair's still-confused scowl, she added, "Remember, Alistair, I told you the child had to be conceived that night, and at no other time. It was the only way the ritual would work. Winter's child absorbed the soul of the old god. Therefore, she could only have conceived the same night I did."

That I'd found a "replacement", as she put it, was obvious. But did the bitch have to tell him _when_ I became involved with another man, practically pinpointing the act to the very hour? Hearing the words spoken aloud made it sound sordid and calculating, far different from the truth.

Alistair was hurt by the unkind fact. "You… the same night… just to get back at me… in Redcliffe?

"It wasn't like that. My actions had nothing to do with yours."

_Almost nothing. Truth is, I wouldn't have discovered my feelings for Teagan _at that time_ if I hadn't heard Alistair and Morrigan's discussion, and if I hadn't been out on the terrace. But eventually, I would have realized I loved him. Overhearing their conversation merely set in motion something that was inevitable._

"Who was it? Who else was there? Zevran? Was it Zevran?"

"No, it wasn't Zevran. I don't want to talk about it."

"Was it your old fiancé, that prince? Or… Damn, I should have known! It's Aiden! That arse wanted revenge because I was with his girlfriend, so he went for you."

"No Alistair, it wasn't Aiden. He was in Highever."

"That's right. " He recounted the evening. "Sebastian and Aiden weren't at Redcliffe that night. We were under lockdown. You couldn't have left the castle and no one was allowed entry. So it had to be one of the men there. It couldn't have been Sten, and you wouldn't let Oghren near you," he mused. "Maker's blood, Winter, did you go find a stranger, a random soldier in the castle, _anyone_ to get back at me for what you perceived as my betrayal? Or was it… of course… you were always friendly with Ser Perth. It was him, wasn't it?"

"No! _Please_ stop this. I won't play this guessing game. Let it go. I didn't do anything to get back at you, and you know me well enough to know I would never sleep with someone just to get revenge."

"I _thought_ I knew you." His callous comment may have been deserved, but it stung no less.

Morrigan interrupted us. "You two can hash this out later. The only important thing is the child. Alistair, you believed me when I told you about him, and that he would be born with the soul of an old god. That is the very reason the two of you are still able to stand here arguing who slept with whom. If not for my ritual, at least one of you would certainly be dead."

"You… " Alistair began, maybe starting another accusation, but if so he changed his course. "Of course. Your child, Winter. Now I understand why Morrigan attacked you on the rooftop. I realize why she said you had 'stolen the soul'. It was the soul she'd hoped to capture with her ritual. The soul of the old god."

"You too? Do you buy into her story about this soul-of-the-old-god?"

"I _had_ to buy into it," he said. His voice was quiet. Sad. "It was the only thing that could make me… do what I did with her. She promised me it would save your life. There was no other way to guarantee you would survive killing the archdemon, and I would have done anything to make sure you lived."

_No, don't put this on me. I didn't ask you to save my life. I didn't ask for this guilt._

Morrigan said, "I attacked you with the intent that when you died, the soul would be drawn to me. But when Alistair killed my body and destroyed my child, the soul had to remain with you or it would have perished, as you Grey Wardens originally intended."

So it was true. My baby _did_ absorb the soul of a dragon. I recalled the searing pain I felt when I was thrown clear of the archdemon—the pain I had assumed was due to battle wounds. But it wasn't, because I had only bruises, and none to my midsection where the pain centered before it dissipated. It was too much to think about now.

My immediate concern was Alistair, the sacrifice he'd made for me, and the scathing accusations I'd made to him in return. I was ashamed at the way I'd treated him. I never wanted to cause him distress, but I'd ravaged his heart. Long before we went to Redcliffe on the eve of the final battle, I knew he loved me, and I suspected I didn't love him in the same way. I didn't have the sense or the heart to tell him, as kindly as I could, that a match between us would not happen. Because of my loneliness, I accepted his attentions but stopped short of a physical relationship with him. In my own way, I was as manipulative as Morrigan, wasn't I?

"Alistair, I'm sorry—"

"Save it," he snarled, and he stalked away in the direction of the throne room.

Morrigan laughed, "He took it well, don't you think?"

_You black-hearted bitch! Does the suffering of us "mortals" bring you so much pleasure?_

I snatched her by her arm and her hair and demanded, "Tell me about this child. I want to know exactly what you've done." She insisted she'd already explained it to me in detail. I shoved her through the doorway, which Alistair had left open. In my current rage, I could have pushed her through the solid wood door. "Get. Out. Don't come back."

"I _will_ be back, Winter. I must—" The slamming door cut her words off.

I leaned my back against it, inwardly berating myself for an avalanche of wrongs. I'd left an impressive trail of damage in my wake—not that I'm boasting. The remainder of my day would be spent scrutinizing and second-guessing every major decision I'd made, from my affair with Sebastian to the destruction of a city.

My evening would be more difficult than indulging in self-reproach (and a side order of self-pity). What of my baby? He would be normal in every respect, Morrigan said, until he reached adulthood… then what? He wouldn't physically be a dragon, but he had the soul of a dragon. It sounded like something out of a fable, but it was actually happening. If I would try to deny it was possible, I'd also have to deny the things I'd seen—magic, darkspawn, abominations and demons, a broodmother, an archdemon, Flemeth turning into a dragon, Justice possessing the corpse of the Warden Kristof, the crystal dragon in Blackmarsh…

I had far more reason to believe Morrigan's story than to doubt it. And now I had to find the words to explain it all to Teagan and make _him_ believe it.

Sleep didn't come easily. My last thought before fatigue pushed me into uneasy slumber was that I needed to find Alistair in the morning, if he hadn't left the keep, and make amends.


	22. You're Fired

You're Fired!

Part 1 – Nothing Personal, But…

* * *

The emotional toll was adding up and weighing against me. Morrigan's threats, Alistair's disappointment in me as a person and as a commander, and the recent, devastating losses left me at the edge of my ability to cope. Prior to coming to the Vigil, I hadn't experienced defeat. I understood now why it was usually coupled with the adjective "bitter".

There was a discreet knock at my door. _Just what I need—another visitor dropping in to add more drama in this difficult time._

"Winter? May I come in?" It was Aiden.

I didn't want to see or talk to anyone, but I let him in. "I overheard some of what was said last night but didn't want to disturb you." He stopped when he saw my anguished look. "Maker's blood, come here," he uttered and caught me in an embrace, literally giving me his shoulder to cry on. I obliged him by weeping all over his nice clean tunic (he was dressed up for the king's visit). It seemed his visit _was_ just what I needed.

When my emotional/hormonal flood was spent, Aiden said, "Can I offer some advice without you ripping my head off?"

"No promises," I answered, backing away from him and going to the basin to wash my face. I must have looked utterly radiant with a red, runny nose and bloodshot eyes.

"You shouldn't be here, Winter. Not that I want to see you leave, and Maker knows I don't relish the idea of making the kind of decisions you've had to make, but with your pregnancy advancing and the danger of another darkspawn attack, which we _know_ is coming soon… I'm worried about you and your baby. As protective as your man is of you, he'll burst an artery when he hears what happened to Amaranthine."

"Everybody's heard about Amaranthine," I sighed. "If news of it reached Denerim, it's reached every bannorn and arling by now." My failure would haunt me for life, I was sure.

"On the subject of the good Arl Teagan, I'm surprised he's alright with you being out here risking your life. If you were my woman, there'd be no way I'd let you go off fighting darkspawn while I sat around in a castle, safe and secure."

"If I were your woman, Aiden, you'd have been dead long ago."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"Because your jokes would have irritated me so much I would have killed you and blamed it on the darkspawn."

He chuckled. "You're probably right." He grew quiet, and the wheels in his head turned on their squeaky course until he came up with yet another question. "Can I ask you something?"

"You will anyway, so go ahead."

"What's this "eve of battle" stuff I keep hearing about?"

Why hide the story from him? He was the original intended seed donor in Morrigan's scheme. I explained about Morrigan's threefold promise to Alistair in exchange for him impregnating her (the mention of their names linked together brought a scowl to his face). "First, whichever of us killed the archdemon would survive the battle. Second, after the archdemon was killed and her baby absorbed its soul—the soul of the old god—she would leave us and never return. Third, her son would never show up to challenge Alistair for his throne."

"How much bullcrap persuasion does it take to get a man who was still a virgin at age twenty-nine to have sex with a beautiful, seductive woman? One would think he had performance issues but… well, apparently not." He mulled it over. "You know, he mooned over _you_ for months. I tried to get him to make a move, to at least _say_ something to you, but he's as dumb as a rock."

"Alistair's not dumb," I said. "It's a mistake to think he is just because he hides behind lame jokes and cheesy humor. Maybe it's his strategy to throw his enemy off guard."

"And his friends. And everyone he meets. And strangers overhearing—"

"I get it, Aiden. But you're wrong about him."

"I've been wrong before," he shrugged. "About you, for instance."

"What about me?"

He smiled at a memory, savoring it before he shared it, making me wonder what was going through his twisted mind this time. "Do you remember when we first met?"

"Not really. It wasn't… remarkable." Truth be told, I recalled the fight in the alley vividly, and Duncan looking on without so much as an offer of help, but I hardly remembered Aiden being there.

"Exactly my point. When I asked Duncan if he planned to recruit you, you didn't pick up on my desperate hope that he _would_ recruit you."

I scoffed. "Why? Was it my winning personality? My people skills?"

"Oh my dear girl, how little you know of men," he said. "You were, and are, a rare beauty, but you were as cold and unshakable as a glacier. You didn't give me a glance. Your demeanor probably killed those bandits before your swords penetrated their bodies. You froze them to death, or the daggers shooting from your eyes impaled them…"

"Was I that bad?" I knew I was without having to ask. I recalled how bitter I was in those days, and was rather embarrassed over my past behavior.

"You were magnificent!" he said, to my astonishment. "You were the ultimate challenge. Ok wait, I take that back. Maybe Oghren's wife and her lover were the ultimate challenges to a man. But forget about them. You had everything a confident man looks for in a conquest."

"I see. A conquest." I bit back a smile and let him dig himself deeper into this particular trench.

"Oh come on, don't get stuck on one word. Hear me out." I waited, and he went on. "After a while, the easy women become a bore. Not that they're without certain charms, but when they throw themselves at a man, it takes away from his fun. Not men like Alistair, too scared to talk to a woman much less try to seduce her. I mean _real_ men like me. I enjoy the chase almost as much as the catch. With easy women, there's no chase. No pursuit, no challenge. No—"

"Conquest," I finished.

"That's it! Men need challenges; women need flattery and gifts."

I regarded him for a long minute. "Aiden, my dearest friend, with your skewed view of women's wants and needs, I'm surprised you lost your virginity."

"What?" he laughed. "Alright, now you've thrown me off my point. What I was trying to say is that before Morrigan came into our group, I was attracted to you."

"Any port in a storm, eh?"

"Yeah. I mean no! No it wasn't like that. You were a challenge, like I said, but you were _mean_. Alistair was afraid to approach you even if his bal—even if he were in extreme discomfort in his male parts. You had a killer's glare that fooled everyone but me. I saw right though you (he lied). The chatterbox Leliana was scared of you, and she wanted you baaad."

"Correction: she wanted Morrigan."

"Everybody wanted Morrigan," he said. "But they didn't pursue her like I did." His cockiness dissipated rapidly, as did his smile. "What a stupid, naïve fool I was."

"Don't blame yourself," I soothed. "She purposely set out to ensnare you. From her revealing, whore attire to her aloofness to her I-don't-understand-people routine, Morrigan was your ultimate challenge."

He shook his head in disgust. "I admit she drew me like a fly to dung."

"A fitting analogy."

"I loved her," he said. "She played me, but I was so enthralled by her beauty and—if I may be indelicate—her performance in bed, I was too blind to see what a manipulative bitch she was."

"I take it she lied about rarely leaving the wilds and having little contact with other people."

It was his turn to scoff. "That woman knew more moves than a prostitute, I tell you. I'm not speaking from experience, but, you know, I've heard…"

"Of course."

"I wonder if she used all her tricks on Alistair."

"Does it matter, Aiden?" He was tormenting himself, and for what? If he knew every tiny detail of her night with Alistair, would it change anything? I wondered if he still loved her in spite of his claims to the contrary. "How do you feel about her now? Tell me truthfully."

"Does it matter?" he smiled sadly. Poor fellow; she'd cut him deeply and his wound still bled.

"You're mourning the loss of a person who never existed. She was a fraud."

"I know. You're right. I loved an illusion."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it."

He waved my apology off. "Let's get back to your baby. If he really did absorb this old god soul thing, what's he going to be? A dragon?"

"According to what I was told, he will be a normal child. When he reaches a certain point in adulthood, his body will stop aging and he will become immortal. Or so she said. And he'll have powers of some kind. Not like a mage, but… Oh, I don't understand half of what she said. It was such unbelievable blather."

"That's… weird, for want of a better word. So if I hadn't left to see about Fergus, and if I'd been at Redcliffe Castle that night…"

"You'd be the father of her baby. Her plan would have worked out because, more than likely, there wouldn't have been a second conception that night."

"Alistair gave me a dirty look when I passed him in the hall," he said. "Is it because I used to be with Morrigan? Is he possessive of her? He can have her, and the misery that goes with her."

"No. He thought you were my baby's father until he remembered you weren't there that night."

"There's a thought." His impish smile returned. "If things don't work out with you and old red-beard, you can live with me and Fergus. We'll be uncles to your supernatural dragon-child."

"And I'm sure you'll ask nothing in return."

"Alright, you got me. I might demand _some_ sort of payment…" He stroked his chin beard thoughtfully and gave me a playful leer.

"You do realize you're insulting your commanding officer, don't you?" I said facetiously. He never missed an opportunity for what he considered a good—if inappropriate—joke.

"You could report my insubordination to the king. My mistake; that's right, he's not speaking to you. I thought he and I were friends, but he doesn't like me much either."

"I'll have to speak with him soon, but I'm waiting for him to cool off from his tantrum."

Someone knocked on my door. Aiden raised an eyebrow. "You think it's him?" he whispered.

I shook my head in the negative; as angry as he'd been when he left my quarters, Alistair hadn't had nearly enough time to calm down. It was Eamon. He asked to come in and speak with me.

"I was just leaving," Aiden said, giving a respectful bow to Eamon on his way out.

"Something you need, Regent?" I asked. I didn't know why, but I was on the defensive.

"Chancellor," he corrected me.

_Whatever. Fereldan titles don't mean a lot to us Marchers_.

"A message from King Alistair," he said. His tone wasn't hostile, but it wasn't dripping warmth either. "You are to take a leave of absence, starting immediately, pending a full investigation into the destruction of Amaranthine."

"_Investigation_? Who is conducting this investigation?"

"I am, on the king's authority."

"Exactly what do you hope to learn, since you were far away in Denerim when the attacks took place? Do you and the king think _you_ could have saved the city?"

"That is what I'm going to determine, Warden."

_Warden. Not Warden-Commander. Just Warden. Alistair demoted me. That smug bastard dropped me down to warden because he apparently thought he could have done a better job. _He_, who put _me_ in charge when I was a raw recruit, questioned my judgment?_

"Where is the king now? I have a few things to say to him."

"I'm sorry, Warden, King Alistair is unavailable to speak to you at this time. After my investigation is complete, I'm sure he will summon you to Denerim to address the topic."

I don't have the words to express how angry I was over this undeserved demotion. Just because Alistair now led the country, did he think he'd grasped a full understanding of leadership? Or that it automatically came with the crown and the fancy throne? He'd hardly led a skirmish prior to the battle for Denerim. He resisted responsibility, and now he snatched up my job and my duties and handed them to Eamon.

"Will you be in charge of the wardens, then?" I asked, barely controlling my temper.

"The king has appointed Ser Bryant as senior warden during this time."

"Bryant? He's a good soldier, but Aiden is senior warden!" I protested.

"Not for the time being, Warden." He moved toward the door to leave. "I recommend you gather your belongings and go home. Your concern should be for your baby."

"Don't tell me what I should be concerned with, Eamon."

His tone softened. "Then do it for Teagan's sake, Winter. He's beside himself with worry for you."

_You arse. Teagan is my weakness, and you know it._

"Leave me, please."

"I will. But the king wants you out of the Vigil within the hour."

_No hurry, but here's your pack and there's a horse waiting. Why aren't you gone yet?_

"Fine. Do me the courtesy of allowing me a few minutes to gather my things."

Aiden returned after Eamon left. He had some sort of sixth sense, knowing when I needed to talk or rant or cry. No tears this time. Just naked rage, which I squelched as best I could, all things considered.

"Huh. The ungrateful bum demoted me," Aiden said. "This king business has gone to his head."

"Thanks for caring."

"He was unfair to you too. That's what I meant."

I was shoving things into my pack as fast as I could, not caring if anything broke. I wanted to put distance between me and those two jerks with the god-complex as quickly as possible. Aiden laid a hand on my shoulder.

"Winter, calm down. Being angry won't change what's been done."

"I know it won't. I'm just so… They talked to me like I was a failure. As if I haven't tried, or done enough, or if I were incompetent—"

"Do you need another hug? I still have the indentation in my middle where your belly pushed it in. Look here." He raised his tunic and sucked his stomach in. "See? Perfect fit."

I laughed in spite of the bitterness inside. "Keep your hug, you idiot. What I need is a drink. Not mead or ale. Something stronger."

"And you can have it. After the baby's weaned."

I hoisted my pack onto my shoulder. "I suppose I'll see you in Denerim, when I'm called in to answer for my negligence."

"I'm going with you," he said. "I won't let you travel all the way to Redcliffe alone."

"Did they appoint you to be my guardian?"

"No. I haven't asked permission. I'm just going."

I was feeling as rebellious as he was. "Good for you. Let's go then."

In the courtyard, we felt it. Darkspawn were near. "Summon the rest of the wardens," I said. My eyes were darting about, looking for the creatures to appear. He passed the order to the private at the entry to the keep, and she rushed inside to gather help. Aiden told the shopkeeps to get to their homes as quickly and quietly as they could, without raising alarm. They scurried off to find shelter. Aiden had his bow ready and I'd drawn my swords.

"They're here, but they're waiting," I observed. "For what? They usually ambush any wardens they see."

"These aren't like normal darkspawn," he reminded me. "They have half a brain between them and they're not afraid to use it."

Varel, Garavel, Eamon, and the wardens, led by Alistair, poured out of the keep. When they did, the darkspawn rushed us, coming from the open gates and materializing out of the ground.

"They're after the king," I called. "Protect him!"

_Why in blazes is he risking himself out here? He doesn't have an heir, or even a wife to take the throne should the worst happen. Did he learn nothing from Cailan's death?_

The enemy had come prepared to assassinate our leader. There were enough shrieks and hurlocks to overrun the courtyard, but to my relief, no childers. Ordinary soldiers wouldn't have stood a chance against the small horde. We were still few in number and the Vigil's officers weren't wardens. Alistair's tainted blood and darkspawn-fighting experience might be the only thing that would save him this day.

Aiden and Nathaniel's proficiency with the bow took out a large number of the attackers. Anders used his chain lightning spell to knock out several at a time. The rest of us, with our blades, engaged the targets one on one. I kept moving closer to where Alistair was positioned, trying to shield and assist him. Alduin ran between me and Aiden, knocking down assailants and letting out his stun-producing howl, giving us the advantage over them for a few seconds.

Bursts of fireballs hurled groups of the enemy off their feet and set them ablaze. It was Morrigan, who hadn't left after all. For once, I was grateful for her presence. When an armored ogre lumbered through the gates, she pinned it to the spot with a crushing prison spell, and while the beast was incapacitated she flung flaming daggers at it, enough of them to slay the creature before it could do any damage. With their main offensive force dead, the surviving darkspawn retreated or vanished into the ground.

I turned round to see if Alistair had been wounded. He was unhurt, and was checking on the other wardens and Eamon. He glanced in my direction, saw I was uninjured, and went back to his conversation. Since I was no longer needed here, I was again ready to leave. I took three steps, on my way to fetch my horse, before something slammed into my back and sent me flying into the shop area, where I struck the railing, flipped over it, and landed flat on my face in the dirt. I wasn't able to take a decent breath. When I tried to roll onto my back to take the pressure of my body weight off the baby, a lightning bolt of pain shot through me.

I saw people running toward me, but the shortness of breath made me weak and dizzy, and I passed out from lack of oxygen.

* * *

Part 2 – Soul Doctor

"_I've been kicked in a corner, I'm down in the dirt. I can't feel a thing, But I know it ought to hurt"_

_~ Foreigner, "Soul Doctor"_

Morrigan said to Anders, "Move aside, mage. You don't know what you're dealing with."

"Something foreign," Anders said. "Something about her baby, or about her womb… maybe both. What is it?"

"I don't have time to explain, even if I cared to." Morrigan's hands glided above Winter's body, making small circles over her womb. "The baby is unharmed," she muttered to herself. "I'll see to it that he stays that way. If we can keep the mother from doing anything else stupid before he's born." She said a few words in a strange tongue, closed her eyes and made a fist, then released a ball of energy that caused Winter's midsection to glow for a few seconds before the light faded.

"What kind of spell was that?" Anders was intrigued, but Morrigan ignored him. Even if she'd explained the spell in detail, he couldn't have performed it. It was ancient magic, as ancient as she was, and possible only to her kind. "Who are you, anyway? What are you doing at the keep? Are you a recruit?" Morrigan maintained her silence.

"She's bleeding," Anders pointed out. They turned Winter on her side and saw a point of entry where a crossbow bolt had stuck her. She had dislodged the bolt when she attempted to roll onto her back. Anders healed the wound left by the bolt. It had passed between her organs, doing no serious damage, but a half inch one way or another would have killed her. When he was done, they turned her onto her back again and he passed his hands over Winter's middle. "What have you done to her?" he demanded of the strange woman. "Her womb is… encased? What is it? It feels like a hard but flexible substance… not human. Not remotely human."

_Dragon scales. Tiny scales interwoven with tough dragonskin,_ Morrigan thought. Those would protect the child from injury, and the skin would expand with Winter's womb in her latter months. "Old swamp magic," she said to Anders. "Apostate magic."

"Unlike any I've heard about, and I've studied all sorts of magic." _Swamp magic? Apostate? She with either Chaistnd or… Could she be one of Flemeth's many daughters that legend spoke of?_

"Not this kind, you haven't." Morrigan stood and spoke with Alistair. "She needs to be removed from this place. These darkspawn attacks will continue until the Mother either succeeds in killing every living person in Amaranthine, or until she is elimimated."

Alistair had heard the term before. "What and where is this 'Mother'?"

Aiden spoke up. "No one really knows, but we suspect it's an evolved broodmother. Another creature we encountered called the Architect created talking darkspawn." Alistair listened while Aiden and Garavel explained what had happened at the silverite mine.

"Then this Mother was created with Grey Warden blood," Alistair mused. "An abomination if I ever heard of one. I want her found and killed whatever it takes. She is the real threat to the arling… what remains of it." He glanced at Winter, still lying unconscious on the ground with Morrigan hovering over her. "First, let's get her to safety. If her child's father survived the war, can I assume he's in Redcliffe?" Speaking those words brought a grimace to his face. The thought of Winter with another man provoked old jealousies he thought he'd buried.

"That is my understanding, Majesty," Eamon answered, before any of Winter's companions could tell anything more to the embittered king.

"If you will permit me, I will escort her to Redcliffe," Aiden offered, no longer able to sneak off as he'd planned. "I pledge my life to save hers, if need be."

"Go with her," Alistair said. "But we'll let her rest in her quarters here tonight, and if she feels up to it in the morning, leave as soon as she's able to travel. If you speak to her child's father, make sure he knows she is not to return to the Vigil."

Aiden responded, "I'll tell him, but I don't think he'll need much convincing."

Eamon glared at Aiden, fearing he'd said too much and Alistair would question the warden about who the father was. The king, however, was too saddened to pursue the truth of the baby's paternity. What did it matter? He realized again that Winter was lost to him for good. She was never his, in fact. How many times would he put himself through the pain of mentally losing her?

Winter's companions gathered around her, discussing how they would carry her to her room without waking her. "Move aside," Alistair commanded. He eased an arm under her neck and the other behind her knees, lifting her as if she were a child. Aiden noticed how he cradled her close to his chest.

"Poor bastard," Aiden mumbled, without irreverence. "He still loves her."

"More than anyone realizes," Eamon agreed. "More than he admits to himself."

* * *

Part 3 – Let's Just Kiss and Say Goodbye

I woke with a heavy feeling in my middle, as if I were carrying a stone instead of a baby. It seemed to have gained several pounds overnight, but when I looked down at myself, my belly looked the same as before.

"How are you feeling?" It was Alistair.

"Were you in my room all night?" I asked.

"No. Just for the past hour or so. I was worried about you."

"You've always worried for me," I smiled. "There was no need."

"That bolt you took… It was meant for me. I wouldn't have expected you to step into the path of an arrow, but you saved my life."

It would have made a grand tale of heroism, but that wasn't how it happened. I wasn't thinking "Let me save the king" at the moment. It was more like, "Let me get the blazes out of here."

"I didn't give you a chance to speak yesterday before I stormed out," he said. "Please, have your say. Talk to me like a friend, like we used to be before…"

"I owe you an apology. I didn't believe you when you told me about the ritual. I thought it was an excuse and that she had seduced you like she seduced Aiden. But I was wrong about everything."

"Were you also wrong about the man… the father of your child?"

The pain in his tone was a knife, carving into my heart. I didn't want to hurt him further, but I couldn't lie. "No, I wasn't wrong about him." He closed his eyes and sighed heavily, as if he'd been hoping for a different response. "Alistair, I'm sorry things didn't work out between you and me, as you wanted. I thought I wanted that too. I have always cared for you and _will_ always care, but I'd met him before you and I became close friends. My feelings for you were confused for a long time, and the reason was… You don't really want to hear this, do you?"

"I think I do. Maybe it will give me the finality I need to put this behind me."

"I think the reason I didn't develop romantic feelings for you was because I already had feelings for him. Not that I'd admit to having feelings. You remember how I was… all business, no fun. But, if there's such a thing as a soul mate..." I trailed off, unable to put the last nail in the coffin. I'd caused him plenty enough anguish. No need to drag it out by gushing about my true love.

"I understand. I only hope… Well, he'd better not break your heart."

"I can take care of myself," I said, hoping to lighten the mood. It didn't work.

"Regarding your demotion," he began, "it's not a reflection on your… Actually, yes it was. I was angry because we'd lost Amaranthine, and I blamed you."

We talked for another hour, clearing the air, making amends where possible and forgiving each other's offenses. He allowed me to make recommendations regarding the wardens, and agreed to give Aiden the position of warden-commander on a trial basis, with Bryant as his senior. It was a fair arrangement. We finished on a cordial note, like old times to me, but not so much to him. It was new ground, a level of our friendship he hadn't anticipated but was beginning to accept.

As he used to do on occasion, he gave me a sweet peck on the cheek. What mattered most was that we were friends again.

Our friendship might hit another snag once he learned Teagan was the 'other man'.

* * *

"My love, I've missed you terribly," Teagan murmured in her ear. Winter whispered a like sentiment. She had never looked more beautiful, or more fragile, than she did now. Pregnancy enhanced her beauty; loss multiplied her sorrow. He held her close a moment longer, then released her from his embrace and held her at arm's length. "Pregnancy suits you," he observed.

"Don't think I plan on staying this way any longer than necessary," she said.

Teagan shook Aiden's hand in greeting. "Thank you for seeing her here safely."

"I could do no less," Aiden replied with equal courtesy.

"You arrived at a perfect time," Teagan said, steering the topic away from wardens and wars and the disaster of Amaranthine. They would get around to it later, but his guests looked like they were in need of refreshment and rest rather than conversation. He addressed Aiden again, "I have business in Rainesfere tomorrow, but this evening is free and my home is open to you. I trust you'll be staying over before you return to Vigil's Keep?"

"If… Yes, your hospitality is appreciated," Aiden faltered. He wasn't sure what kind of welcome he could expect after the ruckus Oghren had caused last time they were here.

While they dined, Teagan asked about their life at the keep. Winter answered, "By comparison, I have to say our old camp in the wilderness was better."

"What? You'd rather sleep on the ground than in a bed? And being out in the rain and cold and snow with nothing but a thin tent and a small campfire, instead of inside a stone building with a fireplace in every room? You're a lot tougher than I thought," Aiden said.

"It's not the bed or the fires," she said. "I miss the waterfall. I miss being able to come in from an errand or a fight and stepping under the water, armor and all, and I miss going to sleep clean. The keep has one bath. _One_, in that huge fortress, meant to house dozens of warriors!"

Teagan teased her, "I'm glad you haven't gotten your priorities misaligned, dearest."

"Spoken like a true, spoiled arlessa," Aiden added.

"Sure, make fun of me," she said, pushing away from the table. "You two can have fun at my expense all you want. I'm going upstairs." She said to Aiden, "Don't even think of leaving without saying goodbye."

"Yes, Commander," he answered, then regretted it when he saw the flicker of pain in her eyes. _Damn fool, don't you know when to shut up? _The flicker was gone as quickly as it appeared. She wasn't her old feisty self, but she was resilient. Instead of her usual sassy comeback, she smiled without comment and let his slip-up pass.

When she'd gone, Teagan asked him, "How is she? I heard about Amaranthine, and I've been anxious for her since we learned of the city's demise. How is she taking it?"

"Not well," Aiden admitted. "She blames herself needlessly. There was nothing she or anyone could have done to save the city."

"And she lost men in the battle?" Teagan asked.

"Yes, two wardens in the battle, and two recruits when we got back to the keep," Aiden finished. He'd said too much again, and he hoped his host wouldn't ask _how_ the recruits died.

_The first rule of Grey Wardens is: you do not talk about Grey Wardens. _

"Maker," Teagan groaned. "No wonder she's so subdued."

Aiden nodded. "She took her duties seriously. She always has. And she's done more for that old keep in a few months than the Howe's did in generations. King Alistair should have been proud of her, but instead he…" He caught himself before he voiced his outrage over the way Alistair had handled the situation.

Teagan didn't press for more information. Instead, he said, "Whatever happened, I'm sure it will work out, given enough time. Alistair is young and inexperienced, but he's learning quickly and he's a reasonable man."

Aiden changed the subject. He didn't want to think or talk about Alistair and his alleged great qualities. "Thank you for allowing me to stay the night. I was afraid, after what happened the last time I was here, that I wouldn't be welcome."

"Nonsense," Teagan said. "My understanding is that it wasn't your fault. I regret that my reaction seemed harsh, but at the time I thought it an appropriate measure."

"It was fitting. I would have done the same if I were in your position."

"Yes," Teagan mused. "I believe you would. Winter speaks highly of you. She values your friendship. I see her trust is well placed."

"She talks of me favorably, does she?" Aiden said with a cocked eyebrow. "That's good to know. I just might give you a little competition, my lord."

Teagan chuckled at his guest's playful brashness. "I can handle the competition."

"You see whom she chose as her escort," Aiden pointed out.

"Indeed. And you see to whose house she came," Teagan countered.

"Well yes, there's that…" Aiden conceded.

The conversation grew more serious, and the men talked about Amaranthine, the battle, the strange new darkspawn, and the Mother. Having heard the conditions at Amaranthine were far worse than he'd thought, Teagan was glad Winter was out of harm's way.

Aiden was glad Winter had found someone like Arl Teagan. With her here, in his care, he could finally stop worrying about her. Capable and smart as she was, the woman had a knack for getting herself into trouble.

* * *

Teagan took off his boots in the hallway and stepped quietly into the bedchamber, hoping not to disturb Winter's sleep. Well, he _did_ want to disturb her, but there would be time for love later. Maybe tomorrow in Rainesfere, her favorite place. She would be rested, he would finish his business quickly, and he would devote his time to her. It was his hope that she would accept his proposal and they could be married before their baby was born.

"Have I told you how much I've missed you?" she said.

"Did you?" He was glad she was awake after all. "No, I don't believe you mentioned it." She _had_ told him, but this was their game. He liked where it was leading.

"Careless of me," she said. Her voice was silky. "Well then, have I told you how much I love you?"

"Not to my recollection," he said. "Perhaps a demonstration is in order?" He threw off his tunic.

"If you want a proper demonstration, I'll need more to work with," she said. She tugged at his breeches. "Those will have to go, too."

* * *

We rose early and prepared to leave for Rainesfere, and Aiden left for the Vigil. It was difficult saying goodbye to him, not knowing when or if I would see him again.

"You know me," he said. "It takes more than a few darkspawn and a broodmother to kill me."

His recollection of my words, with his own twist, made me smile in spite of my inner turmoil. Amaranthine was the most dangerous place in Ferelden as long as the Mother was out there. "Steer clear of those tentacles," I warned him. "And for Andraste's sake, watch out for shrieks. I don't have any more ashes to save your sorry arse if you get wounded again."

Teagan and I arrived in Rainesfere before noon. He had a meeting with the nobles scheduled for early afternoon. While he prepared for it, I went into town with one of the housemaids to buy clothing that would fit my growing middle. It felt strange, but strangely good, to be out of armor and into feminine garb. The new outfits were hardly noblewoman's attire, but I had no need for finery. I was accustomed to utility over fashion. My dresses were similar in to those worn by the household staff, if a bit more expensive because of my taste in fabric—a carryover from my days of luxurious living in Starkhaven.

Teagan was in his meeting when I returned to the manor. It would likely continue for hours, so I bypassed the dining hall where he and the nobles were gathered and went upstairs to rest. One would think I'd have been used to carrying about excess weight from my armor and weapons, which I'd laid aside, but still my energy level was low and my belly felt heavy and awkward. I closed the drapes to darken the room, laid across the bed, and was asleep before my mind chose a topic to worry about.

* * *

Part 4 - The Master, the Lady, and the Naughty Maid

Teagan's meeting concluded with all the nobles satisfied that their arl was no less concerned for his citizens than when he was their bann and a permanent resident of Rainesfere. They were particularly happy to know he would be returning to the bannorn, living here with his new bride and traveling to Redcliffe for business.

Teagan was pleased too. He loved Rainesfere, but more importantly, Winter loved the bannorn and their home. He would have built her a castle if she asked for it, but she didn't want him to change anything about the manor other than to turn the room nearest their suite into a nursery. He looked forward to starting work on it as soon as possible.

He hadn't approached the subject of marriage with her yet (though he'd hinted to the nobles he was betrothed to the Hero of Ferelden), but he planned to soon, maybe tonight over dinner, or later in the evening. She had about ten weeks until she gave birth, by her estimation, and before she did, he wanted them to be married. Why she resisted the idea perplexed him. They were in love, they were soon to have a family, and he could see no reason for her wavering. There was no other man in her life—of that he was certain. What could—

His steward interrupted his thoughts. "My lord, Lady Adele is here to see you. Shall I show her to the sitting room?"

_Adele? What in oblivion is she doing here? I made it clear in my letter that I want nothing more to do with her. _

"Show her in, but don't make her too comfortable," he said crossly.

He purposely kept her waiting longer than necessary. Teagan found Adele's intrusion irksome. Surely his letter wasn't vague. He hadn't seen or heard from her since he sent it, and that was well before he became involved with Winter. Why now, of all times, did she have to show up?

When he felt he'd left her waiting long enough, he went to the sitting room. She rose and greeted him as if they'd never parted company, approaching him and trying to kiss him on the cheek like she used to do when they were lovers. Teagan pulled back.

"Oh, I see," she said, but she was unperturbed by his rebuff. "You're uncomfortable with me? I suppose that's to be expected after so long. It's been over a year since we were last together."

_Not long enough_, he thought. "Perhaps. I haven't kept track, Adele. Why exactly are you here? I'm sure I made it abundantly clear that it was over between us. I meant no communication, no letters, and certainly no visits."

"Oh Teagan, I didn't take your letter seriously," she laughed. "I stayed away because I've been in Orlais for the past months. You know how bad I am about writing letters, so you couldn't have been waiting for a reply. Anyway, I'm on my way home, and I thought I'd stop over and we could catch up."

"Absolutely not," Teagan said firmly. "I meant exactly what I said in my letter. If my wording was too polite and my message too veiled, I'll put it to you plainly. I don't want to see you again, ever, under any circumstances. We had a friendship that was perhaps less than honorable, and you will recall we agreed to a _temporary_ arrangement. The arrangement is over. To be perfectly blunt, you are no longer welcome here, and I'd like you to go at once."

"You're sending me out in the cold?" she said with a fetching pout he no longer found attractive.

"You can find lodging in the village inn, and there's a stable for your horse and carriage."

"Can you let me sit a few minutes, and offer me some refreshment before you cast me off like a stranger?"

She'd appealed to his sense of hospitality, and it worked. He would allow her to stay for a short while and to have one glass of wine, then she was to go without delay. The last thing he wanted was for Winter to walk in on them and assume the worst.

Adele prattled on, and surprised Teagan by her irrational assumption that, in the end, the two of them would marry. He protested that he'd given her no cause whatsoever to have such high expectations. It was purely physical, he reminded her, and a mutual understanding. If she thought otherwise, he wouldn't take responsibility for it.

In truth, though, he did feel responsible to an extent. Sleeping with a woman wasn't a simple physical function devoid of some degree of emotional connection. For him, it was friendship. For her, evidently, it was more.

_Maker, why is the staff so slow today? When will that wine be here? I've got to get this woman out of my house!_

* * *

When I woke it was still daylight. I smoothed my hair and clothes to make myself presentable, and went downstairs to see if Teagan's meeting was over. The dining hall was empty, but from my vantage point I could see the doors to the sitting room were closed. I heard faint voices, and guessed that one or two of the nobles stayed over to talk after the meeting. Through the doors, I could make out Teagan's voice and one more, a woman's voice. He spoke low, in hushed tones as if he didn't want to be overheard. The woman, on the other hand, wasn't so concerned with being quiet. I caught a few words. "…suitable for each other…" and "…we should marry."

_Hmm. Sounds interesting…_

A maidservant approached with a tray of refreshments for the arl and his guest. I had an idea. A rascally one.

"Here, I'll bring it in," I offered, taking the tray from her hands. She bowed and retreated back to the kitchen. I balanced the tray on one hand and tapped on the door. Teagan bid me enter. He spoke in a gruff tone that surprised me. It was like "Come in," with an implied "damn you" following it.

He didn't turn at my approach, not expecting to see _me_ there. The woman was a noblewoman, quite beautiful, obviously wealthy, bedecked in a costly gown, a gorgeous fur, and adorned with glittering jewels. She hardly cast an eye in my direction, as I was considered a mere servant. I placed the tray on the buffet and brought the lady her goblet of wine. Her eyes took in my face, then my belly, and she dismissed me as unimportant.

"As I was saying, Teagan dear, I was under the impression that you would play the bachelor until you tired of it, but someday you would propose. I wanted freedom to travel, so I was content to wait. But don't you think we've waited long enough?"

"I… Adele, I'm at a loss. I don't know how to say it more plainly than I have already."

I moved near him with his goblet of wine. He took it from my hand absently, not looking up at me, assuming I was the maidservant. "Thank you. That will be all," he said to me (the servant). "Please close the door on your way out, and ask the steward to have the lady's carriage ready. She will be departing in a few minutes."

"Are you sure there's nothing else I can do for you, my lord?" I said in a little girl's tone. He didn't answer immediately because he was surprised I'd asked it. His servants responded to his orders without question.

"He _said_ that would be all," the woman answered for him, vexed by my impertinence. "Now leave us." She waved me off like a housefly.

I ignored her to annoy her further, and said to Teagan, moving into his line of sight, "If my lord desires, I can ready his bath. Turn down his bed?" I crouched in front of his chair, looking up at him with adoring, puppy-dog eyes. "Or perhaps there's something else my lord wishes of me?" To add to the effect, I trailed my fingers across the back of his hand, then let my hand fall to his thigh. Teagan caught on to my prank and fought back a smile by biting the inside of his cheek. His eyes twinkled with amusement. Adele looked on with open-mouthed shock.

When he'd regained his composure, he responded. "In a little while, my sweet, you can do all those things and more. First let me see the lady out."

"Yes, my lord. I'll be waiting to serve you," I purred. I rose slowly, leaning forward so he could see as much cleavage as my modest dress would reveal, skimming the length of my body against his knees.

"You little tease," he snarled, grabbing at me and pulling me into his lap. (And a good thing he did! My "seductive housemaid" routine had a physical affect on him.)

Adele gasped in horror. "Teagan Guerrin! You're diddling your _housemaid_?"

"Mmm, oh yes," he said. His hands moved over me, suggestively caressing. "She is… quite literally… breathtaking."

"That… that foreign _simpleton_?" Adele sputtered. "I suppose her bastard child is yours as well? Or is she the harlot of the manor?"

"Oh no, my lady!" I exclaimed in my village-idiot voice with wide, innocent eyes. "Only the master diddles me."

Teagan burst out laughing, unable to keep up the charade any longer. "Adele, I'd like you to meet—" Before he could finish the introduction and explain to Adele we weren't servant and master, she leapt to her feet and fled the manor like her arse was on fire.

"The gossip about this is going to spread all over Ferelden, you know," he said, still chuckling at my audacity.

"I'm sorry," I said sincerely, easing off his lap. "I just got…"

_jealous_

"…upset with her. She made me feel…"

_jealous_

"…like I was nothing. It made me so…"

_jealous_

"…angry. She deserved it."

"That she did," he agreed, rising from his chair. "You're quite the actress, my dear."

"It wasn't _all_ acting," I said with a kittenish smile.

"I believe I owe you an explanation," he said. "Lady Adele…"

"She's your former lover. No need to explain. I know it's over and I'm not jealous."

_Noooo, not at all. She's his age, she's beautiful and feminine and cultured and not pregnant…_

"Your eyes are flashing fire, and you _sound_ jealous, darling."

"I'm not," I insisted. Too vehemently. Not convincingly. "Alright, yes, I'm a little jealous of her. And I resent her calling my baby a bastard." He _was_, technically, but the word offended me.

"I'm sorry you were subjected to that, my love. I wrote her long before we became involved and ended it. Once I fell in love with you, the though of anyone else repelled me." He took me in his arms. "Why don't we put an end to any doubt between us, and give our baby the legitimacy he deserves? Let's get married."

What was I waiting for? Why put him off? There was nothing else I wanted from life than to live with this man I adored and to raise our child together.

_Because he doesn't know about the taint. Or the soul of the old god. Or the hellish life he might be stepping into with those simple but binding marriage vows._

"Soon, perhaps," I answered with a heavy heart. "First, we need to discuss a few things. Then we'll see if you still want to marry."


	23. Til Death or Darkspawn Do Us Part

Til Death or Darkspawn Do Us Part

Part 1 – Truth or Dare, Revisited

* * *

How does one tell her baby's father that their unborn child might be some sort of supernatural demon-dragon-darkspawn thing? Who really understood what this "old god's soul" was about? I could only testify to what I'd seen for myself—the archdemon, supposedly the old god of _beauty_, in its hideous form and with violent, malevolent power.

_Was_ that_ the soul my child absorbed?_ No. I refused to accept that my son would someday turn into something so monstrous it defied description. Morrigan said he'd received the _uncorrupted_ soul, as it was before the darkspawn got to it and twisted it. If he would be immortal and immune to the taint, would he also be incorruptible? As always, I had many questions and few answers.

I summoned my courage to tell the man I loved an unbelievable tale of magic, rituals, and soul transference. He might think me insane when I was done relating what I'd learned from the witch. Regardless, before we could go further in our relationship, Teagan had to be told the truth. I asked him to take a walk with me by the lake, and in that placid setting I recounted my story.

When I'd finished, he was quiet a while, assimilating the crazy things I'd just told him. Finally he said, "Assuming for the sake of argument everything the witch said is true, our child will be immortal. He'll have powers of some kind. I gather, since she's hell-bent on taking him, he must be _taught_ to use his powers. This Morrigan woman sees herself as his mentor?"

"It seems so."

"But he's not a mage? He's not like Connor, correct?"

"That's my understanding. And since there are no mages in my family line or yours, he'll be just a normal little boy. No magic, no setting fires to the village, no making the lake boil."

"Then, dearest, what's the problem? We can raise him with our values, and he'll grow into a fine gentleman who will be able to discern how—and if—he should use whatever powers he will have. _If_ the witch was telling you the truth about any of this. Now, about my proposal—"

"_That's it?_ That's your reaction to the whole story?"

"Of course, my love. What did you expect me to do? Run away in terror? You've got me all wrong if you think you can scare me off so easily."

We walked hand in hand toward the house. "So you're still of a mind to get married?"

He stopped walking and turned to me. A light breeze came off the lake and it blew my hair across my face. He brushed it aside with gentle fingers and cupped my cheek. "Winter MacEwan, will you do me the honor of being my wife?"

"I will," I answered.

"At last," he said with mock exasperation. "I've been chasing you for months." He took my face in his hands and brought his lips to mine.

The baby gave the strongest kick I'd felt thus far. I murmured, "Our baby approves. He's dancing in there."

"Might I feel it?" He placed a hand on my tummy. I guided it to where the thumping was, and our son obliged his father by kicking and tumbling about. "Maker's breath…" Teagan whispered in awe. He put both hands on my belly and waited for more movement. He wasn't disappointed.

"Let's have the ceremony right away," he suggested. "Unless you've got your heart set on a large gathering. The people of the bannorn will want to attend, and I can't very well deny them after the support they've shown me over the years."

"Arrange it whenever you wish," I said. "Tomorrow, next week, next month…"

"Tomorrow afternoon," he answered. "I'll send the steward to speak with the revered mother and we'll have this done before you decide to go charging off on another adventure."

"I'm not going anywhere in my condition."

We expected a small group of attendees, but everyone in the bannorn was packed into the small chantry when we arrived. The morning after the wedding we found all kinds of gifts on the front porch—wedding gifts from the people of Redcliffe who hadn't been able to attend. Teagan was a much-loved arl. Mort important to him, he was a much-loved husband.

* * *

"Majesty, it's most unwise for you to stay here in harm's way," Eamon cautioned. "Since the new warden-commander is on his way back by now, I strongly urge you to return to Denerim. The country needs you more than the Vigil does, if I may say so."

"You're right," Alistair said. "I do miss the action, but this isn't my job any more. Aiden will make a fine warden-commander. With Winter's pregnancy, I don't foresee her returning to duty. His appointment could be a permanent one."

"As you wish," Eamon said. He agreed with everything the king had said. Fighting darkspawn was the wardens' job. Aiden would make a good commander, and Winter certainly had no place among the warriors any longer. For Teagan's sake, as much as for hers and their child's, he hoped she had sense enough to stay in Redcliffe.

"Go back to Denerim," Alistair said. "I'll catch up with you in a few days. I have a little side trip to make first."

"If I may ask, Sire, where are you going? Shouldn't I be with you?"

"No, I need you at the palace. Taking travel time into consideration, I shouldn't be more than a week behind you."

"Where—"

"Redcliffe, if you must know," Alistair answered, growing impatient with his chancellor's nagging. He hadn't yet gotten used to having someone keep tabs on his every move. In time he'd learn it was necessary, and that Eamon was doing what was expected of him. But he just wanted a bit of the old freedom he used to enjoy.

Eamon looked… what was it… startled? "Redcliffe? Whatever for?"

"If you must know every damn step I take, Eamon, I want to check on Winter. She left here right after sustaining an injury. She's my friend. I want to see that she made it there safely."

"Majesty, surely we would have heard if anything happened—"

"Enough! I'm going to Redcliffe, and you're going to Denerim. If there's any business that needs tending to, then tend to it. I'll be there when I get there. Is that clear enough for you?"

"Yes, your Majesty," Eamon bowed. This was what he'd been dreading for months. Alistair was going to find out that Teagan fathered Winter's baby, and he would be devastated. Or worse, he'd be angry with Teagan over an erroneously presumed offense. The king was a stubborn fellow and wouldn't be deterred from his course. Eamon had run interference for as long as he could.

Alistair had his horse brought round and he made ready to leave for Redcliffe. His company of four guards stood by their mounts waiting for him to give the order to move out. Before he left he'd given instructions to Varel, to be passed on to Aiden upon his return. The wardens' only priority was to find the Mother and kill her, and put every one of her minions to the sword.

He checked his horse's pack for provisions. Bread, cheese, more cheese, a change of clothing… He stopped. The air was heavy. Foul-smelling. His blood began to burn. "Darkspawn! Call the wardens!" he shouted.

They appeared out of the ground in groups of three to six, all over the courtyard. His guards surrounded him like a shield, trying to herd him into the keep. Alistair resisted. He didn't want to be a pampered dandy. Nor did he want to become a martyr like Cailan.

Inside the keep, Mhairi sensed it first. "Darkspawn!" she called to her companions. "In the courtyard!"

"The _king_ is in the courtyard!" Eamon shouted. "Go, now!" He ran ahead of the others.

The fighters poured out of the keep with weapons ready. They heard screams and groans of the wounded and dying, and the peculiar gurgly-growl of darkspawn. Beneath the chaotic sounds of combat, the voice of a talking darkspawn rasped out orders.

Anders cast a glyph of paralysis around the king before he started his offensive attacks. It wouldn't protect Alistair from arrows, but no melee fighter would reach him. Then he set upon the most threatening enemies and sent telekinetic flaming daggers their way. A small number of monsters were grouped together, apparently readying themselves for a blitz attack. Anders knocked them out of the battle with chain lightning, then charred them with fireballs.

Nathaniel peppered the area with arrows. Sigrun struggled with a crossbow for a few moments until she got the heavy weapon situated, propped on the railing in front of the market. Varel, Garavel, Mhairi, and Bryant attacked the enemy on the ground. Eamon positioned himself near Alistair, ready to fight back anything that got too close to the king once the glyph vanished.

Alistair wished he hadn't sent Winter and Aiden off so soon. In their days together as wardens, the three of them made the most formidable team of fighters in the country. They weren't here, but _he_ was. He knew he ought to be inside the keep, but he grabbed a bow and a quiver of arrows and found a niche from which to shoot. If he could stay in hiding and fight from there, Eamon wouldn't wet himself and maybe they'd all come out of this alive. Eamon followed and hovered over him.

As soon as the thought of everyone surviving crossed his mind, a battlemage's stonefist spell knocked Varel off his feet. Before the seneschal could recover from the blow and get to his feet, an alpha hurlock appeared with a battleaxe, standing at Varel's head and swinging the axe with a downward motion like a man splitting logs. The creature split Varel's chest open. He was dead instantly, his heart cloven in two.

"Varel, NO!" Garavel ran toward the seneschal, not yet comprehending Varel was dead. He battered darkspawn with his shield and swung his sword viciously, mowing down the battlemage, the alpha, and a score of lesser creatures in his rage. When they were dead, he knelt beside Varel. "Maker curse you," he spat at the monsters that had killed his friend.

"Garavel!" Mhairi screamed. An ogre loomed over him, but he didn't see or hear it. His eyes were riveted on Varel's lifeless body. When the ogre's hand closed around him, he became aware of a crushing sensation and of being lifted off the ground.

Nathaniel pelted the ogre with arrows, shooting two at a time into the beast's chest. They stuck, but didn't penetrate deeply enough to do much damage. Anders had learned Morrigan's crushing prison spell but couldn't use it while the ogre held Garavel. The most he could do was aim fireballs at the ogre's lower legs, hoping to make it drop the captain.

The ogre turned this way and that, swatting at attackers with its free hand, clutching Garavel in the other. The creature's immense strength was slowly crushing the life out of the captain. He couldn't breathe. He felt his ribs bend and snap.

Mhairi ran at the ogre and stabbed at its legs repeatedly. The creature reached for her and kicked at her, but she dodged and continued to drive her sword into its lower limbs. It turned, and she hacked across its tendons at the knees, causing it to stumble forward. When it did, it dropped the wounded captain.

Nathaniel stopped firing long enough to run to Garavel's aid. He and Mhairi dragged him away from the ogre, mindful of Oghren's recent death. They left him behind the merchants' tables and went back to the fight.

Anders was free to use crushing prison, which he performed better than Morrigan had. His spell squeezed the ogre like an invisible fist, compressing its lungs so they couldn't fill with air, and pressing its ribs until they splintered and penetrated its internal organs with bone shards. The beast fell dead from massive internal bleeding.

"Be finding the leader," one of the darkspawn ordered. "Be killing it. The Mother commands it."

Alistair's skin crawled. These talking abominations were the vilest things he'd seen apart from the archdemon. He aimed an arrow at the creature's forehead and let it loose. It found its mark, skewering the talker's head and putting and end to its freakish chatter.

"Creepy," he muttered.

The two biggest threats were dead, and the wardens finished off the rest of the darkspawn as the creatures faltered about, seeking their leader. Alistair noted their weakness. If they didn't have one of the talkers—the disciples—with them, they were disorganized and vulnerable.

Varel was dead. Garavel was wounded, gravely if not fatally. Who was left to lead the Vigil?

_Winter is the best warden the order has had since Duncan. I need her back here to finish this._

It was a lousy choice to have to make. He didn't want to order her back. He didn't want to _ask, _much less make it a command. But Ferelden needed her once more. His next act as king would be to force a pregnant woman back to the battlefield to risk her life and her child's life to save his country.

This was one of those oft-occurring times he hated being king.

* * *

Anders was able to heal Garavel enough to have him moved inside the keep. He wouldn't know the full extent of the captain's condition until he could do a proper examination. Once he got the wounded man stabilized, he mended two broken ribs and a punctured lung. He sensed some of the man's internal organs were bruised. A spell or two to rejuvenate him and take away the pain, and his patient showed rapid improvement. After a few days' rest, he'd be able to resume his duties. When he'd done with Garavel, Anders informed the king that the captain would definitely survive and probably heal completely.

_If one didn't take into account the emotional scars made by seeing his closest friend slaughtered,_ he thought. _This Grey Warden gig isn't my idea of freedom. It's a death sentence. If not a bloody death like Varel's, it was a slow death, and one they didn't bother to mention until after it was done and irreversible. The injustice within the order is less than within the Circle, but it exists nonetheless. _

In the battle, they had lost Master Wade and Herrin, Seneschal Varel, and a number of civilians and guards. The merchants were caught unawares and all sustained injuries. Several soldiers, Mhairi, and Bryant received minor cuts and sprains.

The wounded were rounded up and brought to Anders for healing. When things were sorted and none of the wardens sensed darkspawn, Alistair again prepared to leave for Redcliffe with his guards. He appointed Bryant acting seneschal until Garavel was well enough to take over from him.

Eamon set off for the palace to see to business until the king returned from his trip. He'd been thinking about the foolish Alistair-Teagan-Winter triangle, and believed it was high time the king learn the truth about Teagan and the warden. There would be no more secrets, lies, and excuses. When Alistair saw the girl was lost to him for certain, he would be free to pursue a more advantageous course of action. Ferelden needed no ties with Starkhaven. But Orlais… that was a prize within the king's reach.

* * *

On the way across the plains, Alistair ran into Aiden. They made camp, shared some mead that Aiden got from Teagan's stores—a large quantity of mead for two men to put down—and they talked like they used to do in the old days. With more slurring. While they made their descent into drunkenness, Alistair gave him an account of the last battle at the keep. Aiden was saddened to hear Varel was gone.

"Even dead, I'll wager he's more animated than stuffy old Mistress Woolsey," Aiden said, referring to the keep's priggish accountant.

"That biddy is a frustrated old maid," Alistair remarked with equal irreverence. "I needed _wardens_ at the Vigil. What did Weisshaupt send? An _accountant_, for crap's sake! A crotchety old woman who can't _lift_ a sword much less wield one."

"I wonder why she calls herself 'Mistress' Woolsey. Any woman with a sour attitude like hers is nobody's mistress. She needs a real man to get hold of her and… Oh, sorry. I forgot you haven't had much luck in that area either." Aiden flashed a cheeky grin.

"You're addressing your king, you know," Alistair said, joining in the banter. "You can't go about insulting the royal… the royal…" He looked down at his crotch. "Whatever you call it."

Aiden cackled. "You have a name for it? What is it? The Royal Scepter? No wait, I remember. You tried to fool Winter with that lamppost routine. You sneaky devil. It's the Lamppost, right?" He laughed harder. "Lamppost in _Winter_. Get it? It takes on all new meaning."

"Wait just a minute, Warden. Why are we talking about _my_ private part? Yours has seen more action. It deserves a name."

"It has several, depending on the occasion," Aiden confided. "If the woman is inexperienced, it's the Trailblazer. Sometimes it's the Jousting Lance. And if the woman is older, it's Dragon Slayer."

The two drunk men laughed and jabbered nonsensical things for a while, until the mead wore off and fatigue set in. Before they retired, Alistair said, "It appears I'm going to have to ask Winter to return to the keep. She's doing well, I trust? She made it to Redcliffe safely?"

"She's fine," Aiden said. "But I don't think she'll welcome the news that she's being called back to duty." He thought it was a terrible idea. It wasn't his decision to make, though, and he was glad he wouldn't be there to see her reaction. "In any event, you'll find them in Rainesfere."

"Really? Why Rainesfere? That's Teagan's old bannorn."

_Damn, I let my guard down again,_ Aiden thought. _He doesn't know about Teagan yet._ "She said she'd rather be there than Redcliffe. Can't blame her. It's an ugly little town."

"Of course, I remember now. Teagan gave us full use of his house any time we're in the area. She's probably there with the baby's father." His high spirits were dampened by the thought.

Aiden asked, "You've never gotten over her, have you?"

Alistair looked miserable. "No, I haven't. Maker knows I've tried, but I don't know if I ever _will_ get over her. I love her as much today as I did when… Ah, what's difference does it make?" His subtle shudder revealed exactly where his line of thought was going before he stopped himself.

"As you did when you agreed to Morrigan's ritual," Aiden finished. He wasn't angry or jealous any more. Unlike Alistair, he didn't pine for his old love. Morrigan was an unnatural creature, whereas Winter was human like them. _Being of the same species really does count in a relationship,_ he thought with an inner grin. He suppressed his humor and said, "If you plan to send Winter back to duty, she should have her title restored. She's the leader, not me."

"We'll see," Alistair answered. "It's a temporary assignment, and with luck it'll be over in a week or two. I'd rather _not_ order her out again, but I may have no choice. I'll make the call when I see if she's in condition to fight and talk to her in person."

"You're going to Rainesfere?"

"Yes. Why? Any reason I shouldn't go?"

"None. But I didn't think you'd want to see her with him."

"I'll have to see him sooner or later," Alistair shrugged. "He's in for a stern warning. Maker help him if he breaks her heart."

"No worries there," Aiden said.

"He's smitten, eh?"

"Completely."

"How well I know…" Alistair sighed. "Enough of this. I need sleep and so do you. Good night, Aiden."

"Wait a minute," Aiden said. "I'm sick of talking around the topic. Do you _really_ not know who Winter has been involved with?" How could Alistair not figure it out? Redcliffe. Rainesfere. What other single, available man was connected to both places? He didn't want to be the one to tell him, but the man needed to know what he was about to walk into.

"I assumed it was Ser Perth," Alistair answered. "Maybe he's forsaken his vows, which is what I would have done. I asked her if he was the one but she denied it. I can't fathom why she'd lie…"

"She didn't lie." He steeled himself for the king's wrath. "Alistair, it's Teagan. _He's_ the father of her baby."

Silence stretched out for what felt like minutes. When Alistair spoke, his tone was flat and hard. "That's a lie. Teagan wouldn't be so underhanded."

"I'm telling you, she's with Teagan. I've seen them together. Why would I lie about it?"

"I don't know why you'd find this amusing. You're an arse, Aiden. You know damned well how I feel about her and how much I respect Teagan."

"That's why I told you, idiot," Aiden snarled back. "I didn't want you to find out by seeing them together. You deserved to know, and I shouldn't have had to be the one to break the news. It was Winter's responsibility to tell you about Teagan."

"Shut up!" Alistair roared. "Stay out of my business. You've taken your jokes way too far this time. I don't want to hear another word from you."

Aiden wouldn't be so easily quieted. "Fine. You'll see for yourself if I'm lying. I was _trying_ to be a friend and give you fair warning."

"I don't need your infantile jests and so-called 'warnings'. Just… just drop it and go to sleep."

Neither man slept much, and when they parted company in the morning they were too irritable to speak, aside from bidding each other a curt goodbye.

Aiden, feeling a prick of conscience and knowing what lay ahead for Alistair, added, "Safe journey, friend." Alistair muttered, "Yes, you too," and he rode off for Rainesfere.

* * *

Part 2 – Reality Bites

Alistair neared the manor. He told his guards to stay put at the southern edge of Teagan's property, and he dismounted his horse and left it with the guards. It was a short stroll to the house. _Very_ short, considering he was going to see the woman he loved with the man _she_ loved.

As he approached the house, he saw Winter on the porch. She stood with her hands on the rail gazing toward the mountains. While he watched her, reflecting on how beautiful and contented she looked, Teagan came out of the manor. He put his arms around her, embracing her from behind. He was standing too close to her. His body was against hers. His hands began caressing her while he kissed the back of her neck.

_Why is the son of a bitch touching her like that? Why is he kissing her like she belongs to him? How _dare_ he take advantage of her?_

Rage boiled in him. Rage and blinding jealousy. Teagan knew Alistair was in love with Winter. He _knew_ it—_everyone_ knew it—but the crafty old bastard seduced her when she was pregnant out of wedlock and vulnerable.

_Teagan had his licentious eyes on her for many months, come to think of it._

No wonder the old lech was so generous with his hospitality! No wonder, when they visited, he put Winter up in his master suite and took a smaller one for himself. Did he think Alistair was deaf and couldn't hear him rummaging around in the room beside his, long after Winter had gone to bed? Did he sneak into her bed even then? She was fond of him, Alistair recalled, but not beyond admiration and friendship. Was she so accomplished an actress that she could hide her feelings, or was she confused and shamed into hiding them after the deed was done?

"_She conceived the same night I did…"_ Morrigan's words returned with fresh clarity.

The truth slapped him in the face. _It was_ Teagan_ who bedded Winter that night in Redcliffe Castle. He waited for the perfect opportunity, when they were confined to the castle, when she was hurt and gullible and liable to fall for an older man's experienced flattery._

"I'll sodding kill him," Alistair growled under his breath. He quickened his pace and strode toward the couple.

The faint clank of armor caught Winter's attention. She turned her face toward him. When she saw him, she smiled. "Alistair," she greeted. A warm, friendly greeting, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. He was momentarily thrown off by her cordiality.

Teagan left off ravaging her neck. When he saw their visitor, he released Winter and greeted Alistair with a smile, as she had done. The pair came down the front steps to receive their guest.

Alistair's anger flared. "You smug bastard," he snarled, and he moved in to throw a punch at Teagan. In a split-second, Teagan assessed the king's mood and intent, and he dodged. Alistair followed up with a left, which was partially evaded, grazing the arl's jaw. He was thrown off-balance, and Teagan used it to his advantage, pushing his attacker aside and causing him to stumble. The effect was to anger Alistair further.

"Alistair! What are you doing?" Winter shouted.

The royal guards, seeing the commotion, moved closer to protect the king. One of them drew his sword, another his bow.

"Alistair, _stop_!" Winter said. "Your guards are going to kill my husband!" She moved to place herself between the guards' line of fire and the dueling duo.

"Hold," the senior guard ordered. "That's the arl of Redcliffe he's fighting with—the chancellor's brother—so I don't think the king is in danger. There's a pregnant woman with them—from this distance she looks like the Hero of Ferelden—and we can't risk harming her, or the king will have our heads. Besides," he added with a grin, "I haven't seen a good brawl in a long time. Let them fight. We'll just ease a little closer in case he gets into trouble with the old fellow."

Alistair's focus was solely on the fight. He regained his footing and leapt at Teagan in a flying tackle, connecting with his target and taking him to the ground. They wrestled, Alistair trying to punch while Teagan tried to avoid the blows. He was mostly successful, but not entirely. Teagan used all his strength to roll to one side, throwing Alistair off balance again, and he rolled away before Alistair could pin him. He was glad the king's armor hindered his movements, or by now Alistair would have overpowered him and pounded him senseless.

Alistair got to his feet and threw another punch, hitting Teagan's chin. Sensing he'd gotten the upper hand, Alistair put all his weight behind a follow-up blow. Teagan intercepted it, catching Alistair's fist in his hand and twisting the younger man's arm until he had him in a hammerlock. Alistair let out an inarticulate roar of frustration and pain.

Teagan's ire was more controlled than his opponent's. "You might have hit Winter, you arse," he said to the king. It wasn't the wisest choice of words, but he wasn't feeling too respectful to the man who tried to knock him out. "Calm down and I'll release you. Keep acting like a barbarian and you can stand here in pain." When he felt Alistair relax, he let him out of the hold.

Alistair whirled on Teagan, still furious and now embarrassed on top of it from being bested so easily by a man who wasn't a trained warrior. He massaged his aching shoulder. "_You_," he said to Teagan. "How could you?"

"How could I _what_, Alistair? How could I have fallen in love with a beautiful, fascinating young woman? Easily, as you're aware. But know this: I did not steal her from you. If I'd known you had feelings for her, I wouldn't have approached her."

"You knew," Alistair spat.

"No, Alistair, he didn't," Winter confirmed.

"Don't defend him," Alistair said. "He just said 'as you're aware,' meaning he knew how I felt about you."

Teagan tried to reason with the king and explain himself, insisting he knew nothing of Alistair's feelings for Winter until he heard it from Eamon, months after their affair began.

"_Eamon_ knew of this?" Alistair said. "He keeps your secrets better than he keeps mine."

"Eamon wasn't protecting me. He was protecting you from yourself."

_The drinking. The tantrums. The drunken rants and passing out and hangovers. Eamon's threat to leave my court if I didn't start conducting myself like a king instead of a drunken lout._ Alistair conceded. "Alright. I get it. Is there anything else I should know? Any more secrets?"

"It's not a _secret_, but we're married," Teagan said. "As of two days ago."

He said to Winter, "So I didn't imagine hearing you say 'husband', did I?" Alistair groaned when an old memory crept in. "Andraste's flaming arse, I _am_ an idiot. You were attracted to Teagan the day you met him. I teased you about it. Remember?"

Teagan was pleased to hear of it, and curious to know why he thought she was drawn to him, but this was a terrible time to pursue the topic. He let it pass.

"No," she answered. "I don't remember. You and Aiden teased me all the time. Did you think I paid either of you any mind?"

"I guess not." He was visibly calmer than he'd been a few minutes earlier. After months of emotional turmoil and denial, the truth was beginning to penetrate his thick skull: Winter belonged to another man.

_He's a lucky bastard, _he thought.

"Please, let's be done with this," Teagan said, hoping to make peace. It disturbed him to have been the cause of Alistair's heartache, but from what he gleaned, Winter never returned his affection. He purposed to speak more of it to her later, in private. "Let's go inside," he offered. If not for his clothing and hair being in disarray and a small trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, one would have thought it was a typical call from his almost-nephew.

After a while, they dismissed the fight like it hadn't happened. A round of apologies and a mug of mead later (for the men; Winter was abstaining from alcohol), Alistair stated the purpose of his visit.

"The reason I came to find you was because… I hate to ask… I need you back at the keep," Alistair said to Winter. "Temporarily, of course, as warden-commander."

"No. Out of the question," Teagan answered for her.

"Just a moment, love," she hushed him. He acquiesced only out of curiosity. "What's going on, Alistair? Why would I want to go back when I've just wed and I have a baby coming in about two months? What can I do that Aiden and the others can't?"

"I agree," Teagan put in.

Alistair told them about the attack and about Varel's death.

"Oh no!" Winter said. "Not Varel!"

"All the more reason she shouldn't be there, Alistair," Teagan said. "Varel was a decorated officer, a seasoned warrior with decades of experience. She's _expecting_, for Andraste's sake! How can you ask her to fight in her condition?"

"It's my duty," she intoned. She dreaded going back, but she couldn't refuse to go. "I'm still a Grey Warden."

"Precisely," Alistair agreed. "You've got an uncanny sensitivity to your taint. None of the others have your instinct." He said to Teagan, "It's not experience that counts; it's her ability to detect and outmaneuver the enemy that makes her invaluable."

"The taint?" Teagan said. "What's all this about a taint?"

Alistair looked at Winter questioningly. "He doesn't know?"

She sighed. "No. It didn't seem necessary to tell him, since I didn't plan to go back to the order…"

"What is the blasted _taint_?" Teagan repeated. "Don't you two speak around me like I'm not here or I'm too dense to understand."

"It's your wife's place to tell you," Alistair said. "I'm sorry I spoke out of turn, Winter. I thought, since you were carrying his child, you would have told him." She acknowledged his apology absently. "Now, about the darkspawn, I noticed something that could help you finish them. When they appear, they're always led by one of the talkers, or 'disciples,' right?"

"Yes," she answered, recalling the times she'd encountered them.

"I'm thinking those disciples are the Mother's generals. When we fought the band at the keep and killed the disciple, the others didn't know what to do. They were vulnerable, and we were able to kill them off with little resistance. That's the key—kill the general."

"I'll keep that in mind and pass the information to the others," Winter replied.

"I don't like this," Teagan grumbled. "But I understand."

They convinced Alistair to stay for lunch. Nothing affected the king's appetite, not even being jilted. He ate as heartily as always. Teagan watched Winter fidget, and wondered why she would be so reluctant to talk to him. After lunch, Alistair thanked his hosts, and he and Teagan shook hands to show there were no hard feelings between them.

When they were alone, Teagan asked her directly. "Tell me about this taint. If Alistair thinks I ought to know, and if it affects our baby, you owe me an explanation."

"It doesn't affect the baby, so please don't worry about him," she said first.

_That's good news, _Teagan thought. _ So why all the secrecy? _"Go on."

"It affects only me. Or… us. In a way. But not for a few decades."

"Could you be a little less vague, my dear?"

She said, "There's a ritual involved in becoming a Grey Warden. It's secret, and it's distasteful, and we don't speak of it to civilians. Our blood becomes tainted, and we receive the ability to sense darkspawn."

"What exactly does this ritual entail?"

She made a face, as if tasting something sour. "We have to drink… darkspawn blood."

_Unpleasant_, he thought. _Downright repugnant._ "I see. How does this affect us, and what did you mean by 'not for decades'?"

She stood and paced the room. "It's not important. I've told you all there is to know."

"Why are you nervous, if there's nothing else to know?"

"I'm nervous about going back to the Vigil," she said. A small but necessary lie to avoid telling him the eventual effects of the joining.

"I don't care what Alistair said. You're not going back."

"I _have_ to go. It's not a choice. It's a duty."

"In that case," Teagan said, "my duty to you dictates that I become a Grey Warden also."

"No! No you can't do that!" She crouched beside his chair and regarded him with imploring eyes. "Please say you won't. Promise me!"

"Winter, my beloved, I would promise you anything else, but I can't promise this. I won't let you go alone."

"Let's make a bargain."

"I'm listening."

"We'll go to the Vigil together. Don't join the wardens. Fight with me as a civilian, and when it's over, I won't return to the order no matter what. Not even for another blight."

He considered it. She was agitated about his wanting to join the wardens, and he wondered what had her so upset. "As part of our bargain, you tell me why it's so important to you that I remain a civilian. The whole story, please."

She agreed. Better to spill warden secrets than to lose him in the joining. "The blood is tainted. Darkspawn blood is poison. Most of us make it through the ritual. But some of us react more… immediately… to its affect."

"Meaning? Must I draw every word out of you, darling?"

"No, I apologize. I've guarded this secret for so long it's hard to speak of it. What I mean is that some recruits die during the joining. The blood poisons them and they die on the spot. In my joining, Aiden and I survived, but some of our fellow recruits died before our eyes. I lost two recruits the same day I lost Amaranthine."

"The recruits Aiden mentioned," Teagan recalled. "Is that what you're afraid of? You fear I'll die in the joining? Nothing else? No other secrets?"

She saw no need to tell him the taint would ultimately kill her. That was another 28 years away, give or take. "Yes. And no, there are no other secrets."

"Very well." He rose from his seat. "Let's go, Warden-Commander."

"To the Vigil? Right now? I thought it could wait until morning."

"And so it will. But since we'll have no privacy at the keep, I'd like to enjoy one more day of our short honeymoon. We're going upstairs."

* * *

Alistair left Rainesfere with a broken heart. Broken again and again because he'd been too stupid to accept that Winter didn't love him. He wanted to be angry with her, but he couldn't. It was simple: either you love someone or you don't. She didn't. She'd already told him she didn't love him but he wouldn't listen. And he let himself be hurt again. Not her fault; it was his.

He wanted even more to be angry with Teagan, but he couldn't stay mad at him either. He knew Teagan too well to think his surrogate uncle would have gone behind his back, no matter how much he cared for Winter. Teagan was a true noble and a gentleman. He played by a gentleman's rules. His honor would have prevented him from pursuing another man's woman.

He understood why Eamon had tried to keep him from going to Redcliffe, and why Aiden thought it so important to tell him before he witnessed it for himself. They tried to spare him the worst of the pain, but he was a stubborn arse. Everyone else knew Winter and Teagan were lovers. Everyone but him. Why was he so blind to the obvious truths?

_Because I'm stupid, as Morrigan always said._

"Shut up," he said aloud to his inner voice.

He slowed his horse to a plodding pace while he pondered his chancellor's recent advice. Eamon was right about one thing: As king, his primary concern had to be Ferelden and her people. What was standing in his way of fulfilling his duties? An obstinate refusal to let go of an elusive dream?

"Sod it," he muttered, and turned his horse around, traveling away from Denerim and in the direction of the Orlesian border, and ultimately, the royal palace at Val Royeaux. His confused guards rode after him.

* * *

Part 3 - Battle Preparation

The following morning we rose at dawn, as we'd done months ago in Redcliffe, and prepared for an early departure. We meant to travel fully armored. My armor was getting too tight, but with Teagan's help I managed to get most of my torso covered.

"Someone needs to start making maternity armor," I grumbled.

"I'll speak with the blacksmith as soon as we return," Teagan smiled, humoring my ludicrous statement. He received a sharp look for his effort.

"There are new kinds of darkspawn there," I warned him as he laced the sides of my cuirass. "Talking ones, armored ogres, and the worst are called childers." I described their appearance and their attacks. "When the battle begins, don't fight alone. Don't let the enemy isolate you. Stay in a group, even if there are only two of you. Never alone. Don't get near an armored ogre. Whatever you do, don't try to fight the childers. Let the wardens take care of those… What are you smiling about?"

"You sound just like you did the morning we left for Denerim," he answered. "Worrying for me, when it's you who was in more danger. It showed me you cared, and it's a fond memory."

"You aren't taking this very seriously," I scowled.

"Of course I am, love. Please continue."

"We'll go over this again at the keep. Let's go," I said. My warden-commander mode was in full swing again. This time, before I left Amaranthine and turned my post over to the new warden-commander, the Mother was going to pay for what she did to my arling with her wretched life.

Upon our arrival at the Vigil, we were greeted by Aiden and the others. Bryant served as seneschal even though Alistair appointed Garavel to the post. The captain didn't want it… not yet. He hadn't gotten over the loss of his friend and mentor Varel, and didn't feel right stepping into the job.

Bryant called me aside. "Welcome back, Warden-Commander. I have two things to discuss with you. The first is my position. If you want someone else to serve as acting seneschal, I'm ready to step down at your word. Secondly, we have a couple of leads on the Mother's lair. One is doubtful, in my opinion. The other sounds promising."

"Keep the post," I said. "The king made a wise choice. When Garavel's ready, we'll make the change." He agreed. "Now let's find the Mother and put an end to her. She owes me for the hundreds of lives she's taken, and I won't settle for anything less than the annihilation of her brood and the abomination that spawned it."

"I couldn't have said it better." He showed me the two locations on the map. One was a hidden entrance to some old dwarven ruins we'd explored before. She wouldn't be there. The other was a place called Dragonbone Wastes. Remote and forbidding, it was home to a dragon-worshipping cult like we'd found in Haven… and worse.

"Here," I said, pointing to the area. "Perfect place for a hideout. That's where we'll find her. Assemble the wardens for a briefing. I want every able-bodied fighter ready to move out at first light tomorrow."

"Including me, I hope? I wouldn't want to be left here to manage the keep—which Mistress Woolsey can do—while my fellow wardens are fighting," Bryant said.

"_Every_ warden gets to go along on this one," I confirmed. "You're needed out there with us."

The rest of the wardens had come to the throne room, along with Teagan, Garavel, and Morrigan. The woman kept turning up, occasionally at good times… like now. I wouldn't refuse her help in this battle. Without her, Anders was the only mage I had.

I gave them the location and divided us into two teams. Traveling in smaller groups would make us harder to detect. We'd meet at the entrance to the wastes. Aiden's group included Bryant, Anders, Sigrun, and Mhairi. I took Teagan, Nathaniel, Morrigan, and Garavel. I was a stickler for balanced armies; each group had two rogues, two warriors, and a mage. Each had an expert bowman. Teagan and Sigrun were fairly good archers as well, should we require more ranged fighters than melee.

"If you're fairly well acquainted with a bow, bring one along with a full quiver of arrows. Teagan, Mhairi, and Garavel, are you able to handle a greatsword or battleaxe?"

Garavel answered first, "I can wield a battleaxe quite well, Warden-Commander."

Mhairi put it, "As can I."

Teagan said, "I'm not bad with a greatsword." His specialty, like the other two fighters, was longsword and shield, which they would need if we ran into childers. But I wanted every fighter able to switch from ranged to melee, or light melee to heavy weapons as the need presented itself. I'd already seen that Bryant, a greatswordsman, was adept with the bow.

"Very well, I think that settles it, unless any of you have questions." I paused to give them time to ask, but they were quiet. "Get some rest tonight, ladies and gents, because we leave at dawn. Forced march and no rest stops. We won't slow our pace until the mission is over. I'll see you in the courtyard in the morning. Dismissed."

Teagan leaned to Aiden and said, sotto voce, as if his voice didn't carry, "Is she always like this with you fellows? Stern and demanding?"

Aiden snorted. "Wait until you see her when she faces the enemy. Cocky, swaggering, twirling those two swords around, and as mean as a she-bear."

"Maker! Are you serious?" Teagan said.

"When I first laid eyes on her, she'd just taken out five bandits single-handedly. Didn't get a drop of blood on her, she was so fast." Aiden exaggerated. I did get blood on my armor. A little.

"_Five_ bandits? All by herself?"

Aiden said, "Do you think I would have let a _woman_ lead me for the past two years if she wasn't exceptional in battle?"

"But… she's such a kindhearted person… I wouldn't have guessed…" My dear husband was appalled.

"I swear, the archdemon more likely died of intimidation than a blade through the skull."

"That's a side of her I've never seen," Teagan said.

"Count yourself lucky, old boy."

"If you two are finished, I believe I said you are dismissed," I said with exaggerated sternness. "Everyone to quarters. _Now_." I walked out of the throne room and to the living quarters with Teagan close behind. For his benefit, and to give him a preview of my 'cocky' side, I put a bit of a swagger in my step.


	24. Tying Up Loose Ends

Tying Up Loose Ends

Part 1 – Mommie Dearest

* * *

The forced march to our destination took the better part of a day. I was every bit as cocky as Aiden said, but sheer stubbornness couldn't replace my former energy, now depleted. The last time I'd been in a battle, weeks earlier, I didn't experience this kind of fatigue. Though I hadn't gained more than five or six kilos, the internal, hormonal changes in my body wore me down. I had to swallow my pride and take a rest. That wasn't exactly how I worded it to my fellows, however.

"Lads and ladies, we've made good time, but it's getting dark," I said. "It would be foolhardy to walk into the Mother's lair after an all-day march, so we'll make camp here tonight and start first thing in the morning." There. It sounded like any other order. Not like _I_ needed the rest, but like we _all_ did.

"You must be near exhaustion, Commander," Mhairi said sympathetically.

"You really should get your rest," Teagan added.

"We can't have you overdoing it and going into labor in the middle of things, can we?" Aiden said. "Anders would have to shoot his lightning with one hand and catch the baby with the other. That would be quite the sight."

"Stop it, everyone. Just… make camp," I said, embarrassed at what I saw as my weakness. While they gathered kindling for a fire, I strolled a short distance from the group. Teagan followed me.

"You have nothing to prove," he remarked. "There are nine other warriors, including myself, who can handle the Mother. Maybe you ought to sit this one out, love."

"Don't coddle me, Teagan," I snapped.

His countenance darkened. "Let's be clear on one thing. Regarding the battle, I respect your authority and defer to your decisions. But don't get it into your hard head that I will let you tell me what to think and feel. Didn't you hear the others? Everyone can see you're pushing yourself too hard. That needs to stop."

"Hold on, Arl. Don't get it into _your_ hard head that you can order me about like a servant."

"You're not a servant, and it's not an order. As your husband, I insist you slow down and take care of yourself before you and our baby come to harm. I'm well within my rights—"

"To the void with your rights! I have a duty, and I'll see it through to its completion. I've taken care of myself just fine before you came into my life. I can do so again."

We stood glaring at each other. Did he expect me never to talk back to him? Or that we'd always be like starry-eyed lovers on a perpetual honeymoon? Did he think I was so weak and helpless, even pregnant, that I was unable to handle myself in a fight or discern when I needed rest and when I could push on?

His eyes were narrowed and blazing blue fire. His jaw was set, his breathing heavy. I just knew there were angry words ready to burst from his lips.

_His lips. Those soft, talented, deliciously kissable lips. I've not seen him angry before, but he looks incredibly… irresistibly… sexy…_

I brought my hands up to his face, pulled it to mine, and kissed him. It was an "angry" kiss, full of forceful passion. Not our usual fare, but it had a knee-weakening quality. Teagan pulled me against him with one arm around my back, the other hand roaming to my bottom.

"Hey you two! There aren't any tents out here, you know!" Need I say who made the remark? He added, "I'd rather not have the image of Teagan's naked hairy arse burned into my retinas."

"Damn it all to oblivion," Teagan muttered. He leaned his brow against mine while he battled for control of himself. "Woman, you're going to owe me when we get home."

"It's a debt I look forward to paying," I said, calming my own raging desire with considerable effort.

We returned to camp, which consisted of a campfire and the hard ground. No sleeping bags, no blankets. When we were ready to sleep, Teagan stacked our packs one atop another, leaned against them (uncomfortably) and pulled me to him, much like he'd done when he sat with me at Eamon's Denerim estate after my coma. Before my eyes closed, I noted how cozily Garavel and Mhairi huddled together. She lay with her head on his shoulder and an arm draped over his torso. His arm was around her shoulders. They looked contented.

Aiden, Bryant, Sigrun, and Nathaniel took turns at watch. When Anders volunteered to take a shift, they all refused and told him to rest. Something odd was going on, but I was too tired to care. _I'll sort it out later_, was my last thought as I fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Dragonbone Wastes was as desolate as its name implied. There were dragon bones strewn over the uneven terrain. A winding path, worn into a rut by foot traffic in centuries past, led through the wastes. I noted three high spots along the side of the path that would be perfect for archers to fire on us, and I kept a wary eye out for attackers. The place _looked_ deserted, but it didn't _feel_ empty. None of the wardens sensed darkspawn, but there was the sense of being watched that made my skin crawl. I wasn't the only one who felt it.

"The Mother couldn't have picked a better place, or a worse one," Aiden whispered to me. "A good spot for her because it can't be reached without being seen, and a great spot for her scouts to see us long before we see them. Like now, for example." The two teams had traveled to the site separately and arrived within minutes of each other. We'd encountered no opposition along the way. The Mother was expecting us.

"They're out here," I agreed. "In hiding, watching our progress."

Whether they'd received a signal from their leader or waited for us to reach a certain point, the attack started suddenly. Melee fighters appeared in front and behind us, and archers stepped out from the shadows and onto the high ground. There were at least as many cultists here as we'd found in Haven and the temple ruins.

Morrigan and Anders sent fireballs and lightning bolts at the archers while the rest of us took on battleaxe-wielding warriors on the ground. The mages quickly dispatched their targets, then turned their attention to the swordsmen and axemen. Sigrun used two daggers and I used my two swords, all enchanted with fire, frost and paralyze runes. We were quicker than the cultists' untrained fighters. Even with my less-than-perfect balance, I could outmaneuver them easily.

Bryant, Garavel, Teagan, and Mhairi handled the strongest enemy combatants. Because we were in such a tight group, Nathaniel and Aiden couldn't fire arrows without the chance of friendly fire. Instead, they pulled a dagger and jabbed the nearest cultist. In a few minutes, the ground was soaked with blood, every cultist lay dead, and none of us were injured.

The rest of the pathway was free of enemies and we moved unchallenged until we came to a large clearing. The silence was more ominous here than earlier, before the ambush.

"I sense a creature nearby," Morrigan said. "A varterral. Be cautious."

"What's a varterral?" I asked. Before she could explain, I had my answer.

A gigantic, insect-like creature descended from the top of a ruined building. It was somewhat like a cross between a praying mantis and a spider, with long multiple legs, but deadlier than the giant spiders we'd encountered in the Bracilian Forest and in the Deep Roads. Its attacks included stomping its thick forelegs, spewing some horrid-smelling slime, and snapping at us with its smallish but sharp beak. The creature was tall—its body loomed far above my head—ten feet or more when it held its torso horizontally. In its upright position, with its head raised and its torso at an oblique angle, it must have been over fifteen feet high.

"That's one big cockroach," Mhairi said. "I'm going to have nightmares for years after this."

Sigrun kept her eyes on the varterral when she whispered, "What's a cockroach?"

"You need a big strong man to keep those bad old bugs away," Anders taunted Mhairi.

Garavel shot him a dark look. "Are you referring to yourself, Warden?"

Anders answered, "No, Captain. I was referring to you. Or did you think nobody knew you'd taken a liking to the pretty warden with the impressive rack?"

_Honestly, fellows. There's an enormous killer insect looming over us, and you want to pound your chests and play "let's-see-who's-manlier" _now_, of all times?_

Before I could stop what was turning into a pissing contest, Aiden said, "You'll not address the seneschal as an equal, Anders. Your enemy is out there, not among your companions. Shut up and focus." He spoke with such authority that the mage blushed and went quiet. Garavel's ire subsided.

"To business, lads," I said, before my wardens found something else to bicker about. "Archers and mages, take position and fire on that bug. Let's take it down."

The plan was to have my ranged fighters weaken the varterral before the melee team moved in. When the creature showed signs of injury, we swordsmen moved in and hacked at its limbs. If nothing else, we'd make it bleed out or whittle its legs down.

When the varterral was losing strength and victory was just within our reach, two midsized dragons landed in the clearing to distract us. One of them breathed fire, the other exhaled ice.

"Archers, ground those two!" I called to Aiden and Nathaniel. They obliged by targeting the dragons' wings at the joint where they joined the body. A well-placed shot could damage the joint enough to prevent the creature from flying. They kept at the dragons, and the rest of us continued to fight the varterral. It was more resilient than I would have guessed. _And_ it had the ability to regenerate health.

I swore under my breath. The dragons gave the varterral enough time to recover over half its strength, which was more than sufficient to wipe out my party if we grew careless. "Mages, take this bastard down!"

Morrigan warned us to step back so she could use crushing prison. Anders said he'd use his blizzard spell. The two mages cast their spells in tandem, with the crushing prison catching the frozen creature. Even _those_ powerful attacks didn't kill it, but it was too weakened to heal itself. We melee fighters were able to finish it off with daggers and swords.

Turning our focus to the now-flightless dragons, we hit them from the sides, avoiding the lethal fire and ice breath that could roast the flesh off our bones or freeze us solid in seconds—not to mention their rows of dagger-like teeth that could sever a limb, a head, or any body part within reach. These weren't large enough to bite an adult in half like the high dragons could, but they were deadly in their own right.

Bryant slew one of them by driving his greatsword through the beast's side just below the wing joint, puncturing its lungs and heart. Teagan and Mhairi flanked the remaining dragon on either side and drove their battleaxes deeply into the flesh, severing both wings, penetrating into the creature's ribcage to its internal organs. Mhairi pulled her blade sideways toward the dragon's tail, ripping flesh and bone along the bloody route. The beast raised its head and let out a long, roaring blast of ice spotted with blood, then it collapsed to the ground.

Pools of blood surrounded the dragons, and I noted something I _thought_ I'd seen when I killed the archdemon (but was blown back so quickly I might have imagined it). The blood was darker than human blood, with streaks of iridescent green-gold. As strange as this may sound, it was almost… well, pretty.

"Gather a few scales, and avoid that blood," I instructed my wardens. Pretty or not, who knew what affect the blood might have on human skin? No sense taking risks.

Bryant reminded me, "Commander, we have no armourer at the keep. Master Wade was killed."

"Andraste's curdled blood…" I muttered, annoyed by the increasing number of obstacles and unfortunate turns. "Take some scales anyway. There must be _someone_ in Ferelden who can fashion dragonskin and dragonscale armor."

Beyond the varterral's corpse was a door leading to a structure known as Drake's Fall. As soon as the door was opened, my blood began to burn painfully, as intense a feeling as I had when I stood before the archdemon. There were darkspawn ahead. And the Mother.

"Do you fellows feel that?" Sigrun asked, massaging her arms. "It's like my insides are on fire."

"It's the presence of a darkspawn leader," I answered. "The Mother is here."

Nathaniel asked, "Did you feel it when we met the Architect? I sensed nothing in his lair. He _was_ darkspawn, wasn't he?"

"I… No, I didn't sense him as darkspawn," I answered. "And yes, he was a _kind_ of darkspawn, but he did something to… evolve himself."

I hadn't thought of it before. Whatever the Architect had done to himself, he wasn't detectable as darkspawn. It must have been the infusion of Grey Warden blood that altered his taint. He was an aberration, a darkspawn who'd retained his intellect rather than turning into a mindless beast. Was he undetectable because he wasn't evil? Or had he actually changed his blood? Whatever the case, he was dead and the point was moot. We could sense the disciples quite well, and those, along with the Mother, were his test subjects. _They_ were detectable, and that was what mattered.

Drake's Fall was made up of three towers with descending spiral staircases. Each led deeper down into the lair. Between the towers were narrow walkways lined with childer egg sacs. They hatched as we passed by them, and the hungry grubs went straight for the warm-blooded meals walking through their nest. I had to wonder how the Mother—assuming she was a broodmother, and therefore immobile—was able to deposit eggs not only throughout her lair, but also in the Deep Roads, and as far away as Blackmarsh.

Parties of defenders led by an eerily chattering "disciple", as they called themselves, were positioned on each of the staircases. I sensed the Mother was waiting for us, but her survival instinct forced her to protect herself from us—the invaders.

The defensive bands consisted of a mix of every type of darkspawn we'd seen so far—genlocks, hurlocks, shrieks, an armored ogre, and childers, all directed by what Alistair referred to as the generals—the talkers. When we killed the general, only the childers continued with their single-minded purpose of feeding. The other darkspawn hesitated, awaiting orders from their leader. On the second set of defenders, we'd learned our lesson. Aiden and Nathaniel targeted the disciple, killing it first. The others faltered, looking for the general and listening for what Alistair had once called the "group mind", or the subconscious leading. While the archers and mages killed the childers, the rest of us plowed through the fumbling armies.

At the foot of the third and deepest staircase were two armored ogres and a ranking disciple. How could I tell it was higher ranked? Believe it or not, these creatures had developed fashion sense. The higher their rank, the nicer their armor. The one we'd met in Blackmarsh wore a hooded, fitted suit of black and red leather armor, enchanted with defense runes. This latest disciple had similar armor, differing in color, with both defense and poison runes.

"Don't touch it and don't get too close," I warned. "Its armor is venomous."

"Not for long," Nathaniel said, and attacked it with arrows dipped in a paralysis poison. "I was hoping I'd get a chance to use this stuff." The arrow hit home, penetrating the disciple's armor and flesh. It's body stiffened and fell to the floor. It wasn't dead but it was unable to move.

"Nice," Aiden said. "You'll have to tell me how you made that stuff."

"Sure, we can trade recipes like a couple of old housewives," Nathaniel answered dryly.

I walked toward the disciple to kill it but Teagan stepped in my path. "Allow me, Commander." He kept himself out of the creature's reach, should it regain its mobility, and he employed a long-handled battleaxe to behead it. The remaining creatures floundered, as had the others before them. We took them down, from the biggest threat—the armored ogres—to the least. There was a trail of destruction that marked our passing. Unless she had more childer hatchlings in her den, we had eliminated the Mother's entire fighting force.

We found her in a cave at the farthest reaches of Drakes Fall. She was both similar to the broodmothers we'd seen before, and quite _un_like them. She had no legs, her lower abdomen was a big blob of flesh, she had multiple layers of breasts, and of course, no broodmother would be complete without tentacles shooting up from the ground. Unlike the others, she talked. Her upper body was more human in appearance, size, and shape, but her eyes and mouth oozed a dark red substance I assumed was blood. Her arms were stained to the elbow with the same dark red tint. The cave reeked of decay and waste.

"You must be the Mother we've heard so much about," I said, pacing back and forth (with a heavy dose of sarcasm and a pronounced swagger) well out of the creature's reach. "You knew we were coming, didn't you? You might have dressed for company, and you could have picked up the place a bit." I sniffed the fetid air. "It smells like dirty darkspawn diapers in here." She watched me without comment, but the madness in her eyes was unmissable. "Your childers and disciples are dead, in case you're waiting for them to rescue you. Sorry about that." I twirled my swords, sending darkspawn blood droplets flying toward her. "Wait… let me amend that. I'm _not_ sorry."

Teagan and Aiden exchanged knowing looks.

Anders said, "I never thought I'd be repulsed by the sight of a pair of perky breasts."

Aiden said, "Same here. She's a real horror, that one."

Either she didn't comprehend my earlier comments or she was playing dumb. She spoke in a nerve-grating, screechy voice. "I've been expecting you, Warden-Commander. I trust my disciples made you feel welcome?" She cackled at her own joke, then continued in a more sober vein. Her countenance screwed up as if she were perplexed over a great mystery. "Where is the Father? Why did he not come to witness your end?"

"The Father? I presume you mean the Architect?"

"He is the Father. But he abandoned us before we could finish building our family." She took on a conspiratorial look. "I took his disciples and made them mine. The Father will come to me now."

Aiden said, "Oh, is _that_ what all the fuss is about? Darkspawn mum and darkspawn dad had a lover's quarrel."

She paid him no mind. The terms he used were beyond her limited comprehension.

I said, "I have more bad news for you, Mother. The 'Father' is dead. He won't be making any more disciples, I'm afraid. You're on your own. Oh, and before he died, he asked me to tell you he won't be coming home for dinner."

My words finally got through to her. She may have only understood that the Architect was dead, but whatever I said provoked her to act. "_You_," she said in an accusing tone. "You must be eliminated. You killed the Father. You killed my children. I will do the same to you and your offspring."

Without further chatter, she whipped a tentacle toward me, missing me by a hair's breadth. My archers and the mages began to rain arrows and spells on her. The melee team worked on chopping down the tentacles—her only means of attack, but extremely efficient and lethal. If she managed to grab one of us, the chances of us forcing her to drop her captive were miniscule. She would crush her prey to death.

Fighting the archdemon was easy compared to this monster. She taunted and threatened as the tentacles lashed about, seeking a target. Her babble was unnerving, not only in its unpleasant pitch, but it was a distraction. She was utterly insane. And there was only one thing to do with a mad dog…

While the archers and mages kept her occupied, I rushed her and stabbed at her with both blades. I was so engrossed in trying to kill her that I grew careless and didn't watch out for the tentacles. Morrigan, of all people, pushed me out of the way, and she was caught instead.

The Mother didn't count on picking up a witch, the limit of whose powers we had yet to see. Morrigan's entire body began to glow golden, like sunlight. We were forced to squint and shade our eyes against the glow. She radiated enough heat to burn the tentacle to a black, shriveled mass. When the Mother dropped her, Morrigan landed gracefully on her feet. The glow and heat ceased as quickly as they'd appeared.

_Maybe the crazy witch really _is_ a dragon. I've never seen a mage with _that_ kind of power._

"She's vulnerable to fire," Morrigan said casually, as if she hadn't just had what would have been a terrifying experience to the rest of us, and like she hadn't just transformed herself into a human fireball. "I'll enchant your weapons. Anders, use fireball on her."

"Stop giving orders, Morrigan," I said. "You saved my life but you didn't purchase it. Back off."

"Meee-ow," Aiden said with a snicker.

"As you wish," she complied.

Anders did use fireball and he enchanted any weapons that weren't equipped with flame runes. While he worked, he remarked to Morrigan, "Why don't you just turn into a glowing golden fireball yourself again and kill this monster? You could save us some time and we can get out of this stinking cave."

"I cannot, because none of you would survive it," she answered. "And for other reasons that I will not divulge."

Bryant dealt the killing blow. He drove his greatsword into the Mother's mouth and out the back of her head. Tentacles writhed and snapped like meaty whips. One of them struck me in the forearm with enough force to knock my sword from my hand and throw me to the ground. The pain in my arm was _huge_. When I looked at it, the bone was protruding through my flesh.

"Maker," Teagan exclaimed, kneeling by my side and pulling bandages from his pack.

"Don't waste your bandages," Anders said. "I'll heal her."

"No!" Morrigan interjected. "Leave her to me."

Those of us who knew her were puzzled by her unexpected protective streak, but protecting me wasn't what she had in mind. She grasped my arm right where it was broken, causing me pain so intense I almost fainted. Then the wound was completely healed, the pain gone.

"You refused my request," she said, "so you leave me no recourse. I'm taking you where you can heal and rest until the baby comes. Once the child is weaned, perhaps I will let you go free."

"You're not taking her anywhere," Teagan challenged her.

The others had moved closer, and now formed a wall between Morrigan and me. Aiden said, "It's over, witch. Leave now if you want to leave here alive."

She laughed at their threats. "What power do you think you have, that you can stop me?"

Mhairi circled behind Morrigan while the standoff continued. The men saw what she was planning and they kept the witch engaged, riling her with threats and ridicule. She didn't expect the sword that exploded through her back and out of her chest.

Before she died, she whirled round and cast an exploding fireball at Mhairi. It hit her full force, and the brave woman who'd just saved me was killed instantly.

As she'd done on the rooftop, Morrigan's eyes rolled back into blacks and she exhaled loudly. Again, the raven formed from her breath. Aiden was ready for it. He brought the bird down with a double-arrow shot through its body. It plopped at our feet.

"That takes care of her," Aiden said with grim satisfaction.

Mhairi's body shuddered violently, sat up, then stood. She was burned and her skin blackened, but she was somehow alive. Unnaturally alive, as it turned out. Morrigan's voice came from her charred lips. "I am not so easily destroyed, you fools."

"On the contrary," Garavel answered. He poised his sword and said to the face he loved, his Mhairi, "Forgive me, dearest." With a hard swing that whistled through the air, he decapitated Mhairi and her body slumped to the ground. With nowhere to go and no more warden bodies to possess, Morrigan's soul—visible to us as a gray mist—let out a bone-chilling shriek before it dissipated. She was gone. Finally, completely destroyed. Dark blood streaked with iridescent green-gold oozed from the corpse's neck.

_It's dragon blood. She actually _was_ a dragon._

"Let me look at your arm, Warden-Commander," Anders said. He surveyed Morrigan's work. It was perfect. The bone was mended and the flesh unmarked. "As good a job as I've ever seen, if not the best I've seen. Too bad she was so evil. She had amazing skill."

"Not skill," I corrected him. "Witchcraft. Old swamp magic."

Several months and too many losses after I arrived at Vigil's Keep, the threat was gone and the arling could begin the long process of healing and restoration. I said to my fellows, and my husband, "Let's get out of here." As an afterthought I said to Anders, "Burn the bodies. I want no trace left of the Mother or Morrigan."

Dragon blood was combustible, as it turned out, and made for a perfect accelerant. We left quickly after Anders' fire spell. The cave was engulfed in flames moments after our departure.

* * *

We spoke little on the way back to the Vigil. For my part, I was glad it was finally over. The following morning I would resign my post and pass the position to Aiden. I was done with the Grey Wardens. Only the taint would remain with me. That, and countless memories.

The next morning we held a memorial service for those we'd lost during my tenure: Varel, Mhairi, Oghren, Justice (and Kristof), Constable Aidan and Lieutenant Mayer, the Orlesian wardens who died before I came to the Vigil, Herren and Master Wade, and the citizens of Amaranthine city. My last official act as warden-commander and arlessa of Amaranthine was to commission a plaque to commemorate the fallen, listing each name with their rank or title. It was too little and too late, but if nothing else, they would be remembered. The plaque would be displayed in the keep's throne room until Amaranthine and its chantry were rebuilt.

Before I could leave, I needed to properly close out this part of my life. I had to talk with each of my friends. The first was Garavel, who'd lost so much, and so recently. "My friend, I have no words…" I began lamely.

"Commander, it's been an honor serving with you," he said, brushing my sympathies aside. "You've proven once more that you truly are a hero." I reminded him that it was _he_ who had done the more heroic deeds, namely, saving my life from the Architect at the risk of his own.

I approached the painful topic carefully. "Garavel, about Mhairi…"

"Loss is part of life, and a major part of being a soldier," he answered. "It's best for me to remain single and focus on my duties. _That_ is my life, and I'm content with it."

When we parted, I wasn't satisfied that I'd expressed myself as I'd intended, but he clearly didn't want to speak of Varel and Mhairi. Whether denial was his way of dealing with pain, or he had the ability to separate his emotions from his work, I was confident he would be as good a seneschal as Varel had been.

I stopped by to see Sigrun, Nathaniel, and Bryant, in turn. Parting was harder than I thought it would be. I hadn't grown as close to Sigrun and Nathaniel as I had Bryant. We spent a few extra minutes talking and wishing each other well.

When I stopped by Anders' suite, no one answered my knock. I went inside and found the room orderly. _Too_ orderly. He was a bit of a clean freak, but even this was beyond his typical "spotless room" habit. On the desk was a note addressed to me.

_"Winter,_

_"With the darkspawn eradicated, I feel my time with the Grey Wardens is over._

_I appreciate you saving me from the templars, but life with the wardens has been as confining as in the Circle, in its own way. I refuse to be caged any longer, and I hope you will understand my decision, whether or not you agree with it. Please tell Garavel and Aiden that I'm leaving Ferelden, so they needn't bother sending Bryant after me._

_Maker watch over you, my friend._

_Anders"_

This was inevitable, I realized. His disposition had changed the day we lost Amaranthine. His former cheerfulness and mildly biting humor was replaced by a brooding and often surly attitude. He'd always been touchy about confinement in the Circle, but of late his anger took the form of rants about injustices against mages. Perhaps it was the best thing for him. He'd spent most of his life in captivity of sorts, and his desire for freedom wasn't unreasonable. Inwardly I hoped he would find the peace he sought.

I saved the most emotional goodbye for last. Aiden, my dearest friend, the closest thing I had to a brother. Teagan, who'd formed a friendship with him, joined me in his suite. Before I could utter a complete sentence, I faltered and teared up.

"I know, and me too," Aiden said. He approached me, glanced at Teagan, and asked, "May I?" Teagan consented and Aiden grabbed me up in a big bear hug. "I'll miss you, little sis, but I'll come round to torment you from time to time. You'll send word when the baby is born, won't you? I'm anxious to meet Baby Arl."

Since I couldn't speak without choking up, Teagan answered that we would surely notify him. Aiden kissed me on the brow as he used to do when I was overwrought—a reassuring gesture that made it more difficult to part. Teagan and I left his suite without me being able to say the word "goodbye".

"If you're finished, my dear, I'm ready to go home," Teagan said. "We have to prepare for our son's arrival."

My work here was done and my time over. All told, I'd accomplished everything I had set out to do—everything the king expected of me and more—and I was ready to lay aside my swords and armor for good, and to begin my civilian life.

* * *

Part 2 – The Long-Awaited Birth and Two Surprise Weddings

Our son was born eight weeks after we returned from the Vigil. The midwife who attended the birth said it was the easiest one she'd seen (easy from _her_ perspective maybe—not so easy from mine!). When the afterbirth was expelled, her eyes widened in horror.

"What _is_ that?" she said. "The sac is… it's… I don't quite know _what_ it could be."

I was alarmed. "Is something wrong with my baby?"

"No, my lady. The baby is healthy and strong. It's just… this sac is peculiar. Heavy, thick, and covered in tiny shards of… of bone or… or something."

_Morrigan. Maker curse her; she layered my womb in a substance that resembled dragonskin, like my old armor._

"Could you please finish your work quickly so the arl can see his son?" I said, hurrying her along and hoping to distract her from examining the sac too closely. At my insistence, she disposed of it and went about cleaning the baby. She wrapped him in a blanket and handed him to me. He was perfect. Beautiful. He had a full head of black hair like mine, and dark blue eyes.

Teagan was waiting at the door and he practically fell into the room when the midwife left. He made sure I was alright before he reached for the baby. "Maker's breath…" he uttered as he cuddled our newborn. He was as awed as I was.

We hadn't discussed names, but one kept coming to my mind. Jaden. Jaden Guerrin. It had a nice ring. Teagan liked it too. It was settled.

News of the birth traveled around the country. Aiden lived closest and was the first to visit. He leaned over the crib and peered at my sleeping son. "A fine little fellow. What's his name?"

"Jaden," I answered.

"_Jaden_? Really?" Aiden laughed. "Sounds an awful like like 'Aiden' doesn't it?" He gave Teagan a mischievous smile. "I told you I'd give you competition, old boy. You see he has dark hair like mine. That should tell you something, eh?"

Teagan rejoined, "In your wildest dreams, perhaps."

He stayed a while, and during our chat he told us he was betrothed to Bann Alfstanna of Waking Sea. Teagen was well acquainted with her and heartily approved of Aiden's choice. I vaguely recalled seeing her in the landsmeet when we faced off against Loghain and Anora. We'd rescued her templar brother from Howe's dungeon, if memory served. Alfstanna was a kindhearted soul, intelligent and quite lovely. Aiden looked happier than I'd ever seen him. When he left, he was headed for Waking Sea where the wedding would take place shortly after his arrival. Because I was still not fully recovered from the birth, we wouldn't be able to attend.

"Not one for wasting time, are you?" Teagan teased.

"I'd like the chance to become a father before I'm old enough to be a grandfather," Aiden said, "unlike _some_ fellows I know."

"Ouch," Teagan said. They newlyweds would live at Alfstanna's manor until Cousland Castle was completely restored, which would take another year or so. After that, Aiden said, they would decide where they wanted to make their permanent home.

"Your news caught me by surprise and I'm unable to arrange for a proper wedding gift," Teagan told Aiden as he made ready to leave, "so I'll send along a wagonload of my meadery's select mead and Rainesfere spiced wine to Bann Alftanna's home. It should arrive in time for your wedding." He handed Aiden a bottle of each for his trip back home, with a warning not to get too drunk to find his way.

Eamon came to spend a few days with us as soon as his duties allowed. He beamed with delight when he held his new nephew. Behind the joy, though, was pain. He'd recalled holding Connor when his son was an infant. The boy, now age eleven, had been moved to the Circle in Kirkwall while the Lake Calenhad tower was being rebuilt. It was just as well, because no matter where Conner lived, Eamon would never be allowed to see him again.

Soon after Eamon departed, Alistair stopped by. "I'm on my way to Orlais," he said, "but I couldn't pass by without greeting the newest member of the Guerrin family."

"I'll bring him downstairs," Teagan said.

When we were alone, Alistair confided, "I'm going to be married soon. In a few days, in fact."

"Really? To whom? I didn't know you were seeing anyone." I was happy for him. If he'd found someone who loved him as he deserved to be loved, I was all for it.

"Empress Celine of Orlais," he answered. "Eamon's idea, not mine. She's a lovely woman, a bit young for me but I guess I can't afford to be too picky."

"Oh," I said, mildly disappointed. A political marriage. Usually not love matches at the start, but with the potential to become one. I cheered myself with that thought. Alistair was a handsome man, with great wit, an easy charm, and a host of other fine qualities. Celine should count herself lucky. He would make a wonderful husband. "She'd better be good to you, or she'll have to deal with me," I joked.

"I'll make sure she's warned," he smiled. "Or maybe not. I ought to let her find out the hard way, like I did. Like Aiden did. Like Leliana did…"

"Alright, alright! Enough!" I laughed. "I get your point. I can be a little difficult at times."

"And _mean_," he added. "Don't leave that one out. When I met you, it was your most noticeable character trait."

Teagan came in with Jaden before I could defend myself. Alistair was all oohs and aahs when he saw my son. He wanted to hold the baby but didn't have any experience with kids (nor did I, but he also lacked instinct in that department), so Teagan had to instruct him on how to support Jaden's head and "for Andraste's sake, don't squeeze him against your iron-plated chest". Alistair was in awe, like we all were, holding the baby and talking to him in silly baby-talk, sounding nothing like a king-soon-to-be emperor.

"He's a beautiful child," Alistair said. "And see how alert he is? He's smart _and_ good looking, just like his mother."

"Hey, he looks like me too," Teagan protested.

"Hmm… No, I don't see _any_ resemblance to you, Uncle. He's not ugly in the least."

We had an enjoyable visit. The old wounds were healed. Teagan and Alistair were like family again, calling each other "Uncle" and "Nephew". Alistair referred to Jaden as _his_ nephew—a strange relational twist, but if he wanted to be surrogate uncle, I had no objection.

Teagan insisted on putting Jaden back to bed rather than letting our nanny take care of it. He doted on our boy. While he was occupied, I walked out to the porch with Alistair. "I'd like to talk to you for a minute before you go," I said.

"Of course," he said. "What's on your mind?"

"We've had our differences in the past, and for my part in them, I'm sorry. And when we were… What I mean is, before I became involved with Teagan, I think I led you on. I didn't mean to, but I did. And I feel awful about it."

He gave me the familiar rascally look. "Well, you did lead me on, and you _should_ feel awful. Oh come on now, don't go all pouty on me. I'm joking. I joke a lot, remember? Mostly lame jokes no one appreciates."

"I want you to be happy, Alistair," I said. "You're dear to me, you know."

"Am I?" His voice had a faraway quality. "Look at it this way. Orlais and Ferelden will be allied through marriage, and eventually through an heir. We'll be at peace. It's the best thing I can do for the country, though some might have to adjust to the idea of an Orlesian queen. No doubt the empress will have to convince some of her people that it's a good political move, too. But in the end, it will be well for both countries."

"I said I want _you_ to be happy," I repeated. "Ferelden aside, Alistair. Be happy."

His smile was appreciative, and his manner was the one I remembered from those days at camp. Warm, caring, and kind. "That's sweet of you to say. I'll _try_ to be happy. Good enough?"

"No," I smirked. "But if that's the best you can do…"

"I've got to get on the road or I'll miss my own wedding. Not that I'm not tempted to miss it." He chuckled at my startled look. "Joking again. Don't be so serious. You'll wrinkle early."

"Bastard," I hissed, suppressing a smile.

"That's me, the royal bastard." He leaned to me and kissed my brow—another familiar gesture from the past. "_You_ be happy. That's an order from your king."

He walked down the steps to his waiting company of guards. Curiously, I had a lump in my throat and my eyes threatened to fill with tears.

_It's post-pregnancy emotion, that's all._

Alistair mounted his horse and waved to me before he turned northward, toward Jader and on to his betrothed in Val Royeaux. The man who, not so many months earlier, was reluctant to be king, would return from Orlais an emperor.

"Don't think I missed that kiss between you two," Teagan joked from the doorway. "Should I be jealous?"

I made reference to Alistair's upcoming nuptials. "That's wonderful news!" he exclaimed. "Eamon has been hoping to forge a bond with Orlais since… Ah well, no matter. He'll be happy when the countries are bound by marriage. No more threat of invasion from our west. I wonder why Alistair didn't mention it."

"He did," I said. "You were too preoccupied with your son to follow the conversation."

"Well darling, you can't exactly fault me for that." He eyed me more closely. "Something's troubling you. What is it? Are you unwell?"

"I'm fine. I just feel… I think _Alistair_ feels he's being pushed into this marriage. I'm concerned for him."

"Have you not been around nobility all your life, my dear? A king marrying an empress is a step up, I'd say. He's doing what's best for Ferelden. And from all reports, Empress Celine is a beauty. Whatever misgivings he may have now will be forgotten on his wedding night. Trust me."

His reference to their physical union as a means to placate Alistair into submission was tactless—unusual for my typically well-mannered spouse—but I didn't comment on it. "If you say so…"

He continued, "I expect disapproval from some survivors of the Orlesian occupation. But Alistair has earned the respect and affection of the populace in his short time as king. Their ill feelings will pass." He paused to consider the impact the marriage would have on the people of the arling. "I'll have some work ahead of me here and in Redcliffe. However, these are reasonable folk. They'll come around."

"Yes, you're right," I answered absently, still worried for Alistair. "I'm sure it will work out."

* * *

Teagan observed his wife and the king conversing. It was always evident to him that Alistair still loved Winter, but by now the king had accepted their marriage and kept his feelings to himself. What he _hadn't_ noticed before was how much Winter admired Alistair.

He was being facetious, but not _entirely_ joking when he asked Winter if he should be jealous of Alistair. The two were close; he understood this. They'd had their lives in each other's hands for a long time before he came into her life. But what he witnessed was more than simple friendship. Compared to how she was with Aiden, with whom she was as close as a sibling, her manner was different with Alistair. There was tenderness in the way they interacted.

Teagan wasn't a man given to bouts of jealousy and suspicion. He was secure in his marriage and hadn't a whit of doubt that Winter sincerely loved him. Nonetheless, he was convinced there was more to their story than he'd been told. Those two had a history of some sort. One day, when he thought the time was right, he would ask her about the true nature of her relationship with Alistair. For the time being, she was still emotional over the birth of their child and he didn't want to risk upsetting her.

* * *

Part 3 – Love on the Rocks

_ "…ain't no big surprise. Pour me a drink, and I'll tell you some lies…" ~ Neil Diamond_

News of the king's marriage in Orlais hit Fereldans like a typhoon. A few nobles thought it was a brilliant political move. Others resented his choice of an Orlesian for his queen rather than a Fereldan noblewoman. The majority of Fereldans were angered or frightened by the union of their king and the empress. It hadn't been so long since they'd won their freedom—before Empress Celine's time, but only a generation earlier—and the memories of the harsh Orlesian occupation were still fresh.

Eamon met with the nobles during those days, persuading them that the marriage was best for Ferelden. He traveled about to the different arlings and bannorns, holding public meetings, reassuring the citizens that King Alistair had their interests at heart, and urging them to be calm. Orlais was their ally. A powerful ally, with a large army.

Stories of Empress Celine's beauty were not exaggerated. She was blonde, buxom, statuesque, and she emanated charm. Alistair was pleased with her at their first meeting, and she was quite taken with him. She complimented his looks and physique until he became uncomfortable with the praise and her too-frank comments. When she noted his discomfiture—with amusement—she dropped the subject and discussed the terms of their marriage contract. Alistair wouldn't immediately be named emperor (which suited him fine), but after the birth of their first child, the title would be granted him in a lavish coronation ceremony. Celine would be named queen of Ferelden, but she made it clear she had no intention of going to Denerim for her coronation—a declaration that gave Alistair the first niggling doubt about their marriage.

Worse, she repeated rumors she'd heard from old soldiers and those who had visited Ferelden. "Your country is brown and unslightly. And it smells of wet dog, as everyone knows. How you can bear to live there is beyond me."

A month after his wedding to Celine, Alistair returned to Denerim without his bride. She urged him to stay with her in her palace and rule Ferelden from Val Royeaux—a stupid suggestion. He refused, telling her it was important that he live among his own people until the unrest passed and his citizens saw Orlais no longer posed a threat to their freedom.

In truth, Alistair didn't want to live in Orlais. He felt out of place among the people. In Celine's court, he suspected her nobles resented his presence. He didn't speak the national language. Their customs were unfamiliar to him. Their foods were strange, their music alien, the names of towns and people difficult to pronounce. He'd had a hard enough time coming to terms with being king. To be an emperor—a preposterous title in his thinking—was an awful lot to take in. He was relieved Celine chose to wait a while before saddling him with that role.

On his wedding night, it occurred to Alistair that he had never, in his twenty-nine years, approached a woman for sex. Well, he did approach Winter once but she turned him down. The only experience he'd had with a woman was with Morrigan, and even then it was under duress and with lyrium, and his memory of it was still foggy to this day (thank the Maker!). Now he had to perform with a woman he didn't love but was obligated to sleep with. Alistair was a romantic at heart, and this _wasn't_ his idea of romance. It was a duty. A job.

In spite of his reluctance, he was a virile male and his body responded to stimuli whether or not his heart was involved. Celine's clever touches and kisses made up for his lack of interest, and the deed was done with practically no effort on his part. Afterwards, when he was ready to sleep, she expressed her less-than-thrilled opinion. Talk about an ego-buster!

"You are inexperienced with women, yes? I understand this, although I cannot imagine how a handsome man like yourself, with such a beautiful body, would wish to live like a chantry brother." (She knew nothing of his past as a templar in the chantry, and he didn't feel inclined to share it with her.)

"I'm sorry, dear. I was… distracted," he answered. Her pouty scowl made him feel guilty. Like it or not, love her or not, she was his wife and she deserved better than what he'd given.

"Distracted by another lover?" He answered in the negative. "Then let's see if I can get your full attention." Her hands were all over him. He performed automatically again, but he tried to appear more interested.

When they were done, he felt…what was it? Degraded? Violated? His new bride, at only twenty-two years of age and never before married, was _very_ experienced. Maybe the average man would have been happy to be pawed and prodded by a stunning woman, but he found her lasciviousness distasteful.

The scene repeated itself night after night, and his feelings for his bride didn't develop as he'd hoped they would. He told himself it was too much too soon, and that things would get better in time as they got to know each other.

When he wasn't entertaining his wife, whose carnal appetite appeared insatiable, he went out riding, walking the countryside and getting lost good and proper until he had to ask directions back to the palace; he discovered villages and sampled their mead and wines, gorging himself on delightful cheeses, and he sat for hours beside a lake that reminded him of Lake Calenhad. The lake made him homesick.

After the first few days he was ready to return to Denerim, but Orlesian custom dictated that he stay with his bride for thirty days. He made it through that month with mounting impatience. Thirty long, miserable days in an inhospitable country. Lying in bed at night with a wife who, in the heat of passion—_her_ passion, not his—sometimes called him Cailan.

Celine had let it slip in conversation that she had not only met Cailan, but they'd been intimate. She compared the two half-brothers' performance in bed! When Alistair voiced his displeasure at her crude talk, she changed the topic and chattered about unrelated trivia, as if that would make the uncomfortable feeling of sleeping with Cailan's mistress go away. Since then he'd avoided her, sleeping with her only when she told him she was in her fertile days.

When the month was over he bid his wife a perfunctory goodbye, anxious to leave. "Do let me know if you're expecting," he said before he departed, making it sound more caring than it was calculating. "I wouldn't want to miss the birth of our child."

"Of course, my love." She blew him a kiss and cheerfully went back to her court of lickspittles and fools. He hoped she _was_ pregnant, because if so, he would be spared another trip to Orlais for a good eight months. If she weren't, it would mean another taxing ride and another bout of forcing himself to have sex with a woman who was as unchaste as Morrigan.

_Ugh, what a comparison! But that's how I'm beginning to feel about her. She's lovely, but I have to force myself to sleep with her. Maybe some lyrium would help…_ He ended the line of thought with a mirthless smile.

He felt free when he left Celine's palace. He was going home to his beloved Ferelden, where people were normal and everything was familiar. He didn't like change. The plainness of his country was more beautiful in his eyes than the finery (and snobbery) of Val Royeaux. Orlais was too gaudy for his liking.

Since Celine refused to come to Denerim for her coronation, Alistair was in no hurry to name her queen. He'd get around to it eventually. Probably. When he had no other choice.

As his mind wandered on different things, he thought about his last meeting with Winter, and the pleasant memories it invoked of their time at camp. He wondered why he still felt such a strong attachment to her, considering they had never been intimate.

_Because we fought together, bled together, risked our lives and saved each other's lives many times, living in close quarters for over a year._ It created a bond, even between soldiers of the same gender. Not romantic bonds, but a bond of brotherhood. That's probably why he still had such strong feelings for her. It was logical that he would feel close to her and protective of her. They were comrades in arms.

Turning his mind again to his marriage, he surrendered his wishful thinking and admitted the truth to himself. It wasn't only that he didn't like Orlais. He didn't like Celine either, and under no circumstances would he come to love her.

* * *

"Welcome home, Emperor!" Eamon boomed, proud of his accomplishment. Ferelden and Orlais were finally allied by marriage. "Congratulations!"

"Spare me," Alistair groaned. "And it's king, not emperor. I have to prove my worth to her lackeys before she'll grant me a throne beside hers. For that, she can keep it."

"I don't understand," Eamon said. "In our negotiations she agreed to make you emperor as soon as you were wed."

"Well, I guess she lied. I don't care about the title. It sounds too hoity-toity if you ask me."

"What about an heir? Is she with child?"

"Eamon, I just had a two-week ride after a miserable month in that sewer of a country. I don't know if she's with child or not. Right at this moment, I don't _care_ about an heir. But to ease your mind, I tried until I wearied of trying. If she's with child, I'm sure I'll hear about it soon enough."

"That's excellent, Majesty," Eamon said. "An heir will guarantee the alliance for at least another generation. This bodes well for us, does it not?"

Alistair, who had sunk into a chair out of sheer fatigue, rose and walked to the door. He didn't want to be reminded of sleeping with Celine. The longer he was away from her, the more his disdain for her increased. "Believe whatever you wish, Eamon. I'm tired and I'm going to bed, and I don't want to be disturbed. You can brief me on all the news in a few days."

"But Sire, the country is in a state of unrest over your marriage. The people need to know you're not abandoning them and siding with the Orlesians."

Alistair turned to him, furious. "This marriage was your bloody plan, Chancellor. You sold me on the benefits of marrying the empress who, incidentally, _slept with_ _Cailan_ even though she knew he was married. Oh, that surprises you, does it? If there's unrest in Ferelden, _you_ deal with it."

He snagged a manservant who happened by. "Have bath water fetched up to my chambers. A lot of it. Hot as you can make it." _Curse Eamon and his political machinations._ He'd get no rest until he washed the memory of Celine's touch from his body and mind. It might take more than water to accomplish that. "And bring me a bottle of wine," he called after the retreating servant. Two bottles would have been better, but he exercised restraint. He'd learned his lesson, and he wasn't going to let his dissatisfaction with his marriage push him into becoming a drunk again.

* * *

It took several weeks to tour the entire country and to restore his people's confidence. Alistair visited every settlement, village, city, bannorn, arling, and teyrnir, reassuring his citizens that by no means would he allow Orlesians free access to the country, Orlesian soldiers wouldn't be admitted into Ferelden, and there was no way under the heavens that the two countries would become one. As an act of good faith, he posted soldiers along the border to keep it secure.

Celine was even less politically-savvy than he was, though she'd been raised in a royal setting, groomed to be empress, and had been ruling for six years, as compared to his commoner's life and his one-year rule. She was too caught up in parties and pleasure to care about land-grabbing or invasions—at least, at this point in her life. Alistair expected no trouble from Orlais, particularly since the marriage treaty, but it wouldn't hurt to keep his borders guarded.

When he'd covered every settlement from Denerim westward, he took a break, spending a few days with Teagan and Winter in their Rainesfere home. He was enthralled with baby Jaden. The pure innocence of the newborn ignited something in his heart, and he looked forward to having a child of his own.

Alistair spent most of his time playing with the baby, fascinated by how quickly he was growing. Now five months old, Jaden had cut his first teeth and was trying to crawl, rocking back and forth on all fours, but he hadn't quite gotten the hang of forward motion. Alistair was determined to help him crawl before he left, supporting the baby's abdomen with his hands and inching him forward. Winter thought for a while he might actually succeed, but a messenger from Orlais arrived and cut his visit short.

Celine wanted him to return to the palace. She hadn't conceived and was ready to try again. He groaned inwardly, not looking forward to the process, but determined to impregnate her this time around even if it meant staying in Orlais until he was _sure_ she was pregnant.

He picked up Jaden and held him high up, over his head, making the baby laugh. "Maker, what a marvelous sound," he remarked to Jaden, who grinned and cooed at the playful man and drooled a sizeable puddle on his own clothing. "Are you saying something to me? Can you say 'Alistair'? Al-is-tar. Try it." He cradled the wriggling, giggling boy and repeated his name several times, in drawn-out syllables. "Al-is-tair. Aaaaallll-liiiiiissss-taaaaiiirr."

Winter laughed so hard at the ludicrous scene that her sides ached. Jaden hadn't started talking, but when he did, she doubted he'd be able to pronounce 'Alistair'. The best he could hope for would be a garbled soundalike non-word.

"Give him a little more time," Teagan said. "He hasn't said any actual words yet, but I expect his first word will be 'dada' or something close to it."

Alistair was reluctant to let the boy go, but he had to head on to Val Royeaux right away. He wasn't familiar with all the particulars of a woman's fertile time, but he knew if he missed it, he'd be stuck there for another month until it came round again.

"Time to say goodbye, little man," he said to Jaden. He'd hardly spoken to Winter and Teagan since he'd arrived. His attention was all for Jaden. "I'll try to stop in on my way back. Take care of your parents until I return, alright?" He held the baby close, and he thought his heart might burst when he felt Jaden's little arms go about his neck. "Yeah, I love you too."

He handed the child back to his mother. "If he were my son…" He stopped himself and tried to cover the mess, making a worse one in the process. "I meant, if I had a son like him. Not that I wanted to take Teagan's place. Wait, that's not what I mean either."

"Alistair, it's okay," Winter said. "I get it. You'll have one of your own soon enough."

"I hope," he said, and his good humor faded. "Well, I'm off. Take care."

When he'd gone, Winter said to her husband, "He's miserable. I was afraid of it and I hoped for the best, but his marriage isn't a happy one."

"It's none of our concern," Teagan said. "It is, as you said, _his_ marriage. His life. Let him handle it as best he can. You can't be there to save him from every little problem any more." It came out more harshly than he intended.

"Something on your mind, love?"

"Actually, there is. I've been meaning to ask you about Alistair."


	25. The Royal Heir

The Royal Heir

Part 1 – Friends, Lovers, and Enemies

AN: This is my most risque chapter. Not too bad, not gross, but a little stronger than my usual.

* * *

Did I give you the impression that my marriage to Teagan was a storybook, idyllic existence, devoid of strife? Such was not the case by any means. We loved each other with a vibrant passion, and wherever such passion thrives, negative emotions will occasionally make an appearance. My seething annoyance whenever I heard the name 'Adele', for example. And then there was Teagan's jealousy of Alistair. Both baseless concerns but we were two strong-willed people, and every now and again, we disagreed. Vehemently. The discussion about Alistair led to our worst fight.

Teagan pressed me for details of my past involvement with Alistair. I'd never known him to be jealous before, which he strenuously denied, but he sure _sounded_ jealous.

"It was nothing," I insisted. "We were close, yes. _Very_ close, to be honest. In those days, he was my best friend and best fighter. He accompanied me on almost every mission. We lived and fought and traveled together all the time. How could we not have grown close?"

"It would appear you only became close with the handsome young _men_ in your camp, like Aiden and Alistair and that elf fellow. You didn't get along so well with the women, as I understand it."

"That's an unfair assessment. You didn't know them as I did. Of the three women in my group, one was Morrigan—you remember her, don't you? Another was an unskilled old busybody of a mage. Leliana was a half-witted Orlesian ex-bard who couldn't string two rational thoughts together. She was Zev's lover, not I."

"You're avoiding my question. I asked if you and Alistair were romantically involved. Is it so hard to say a simple 'yes' or 'no'? Or is there a reason for your reluctance to speak of it?"

In truth, I _didn't_ want to discuss it. It was long past, there was nothing to tell, and it was best forgotten. Teagan wouldn't let go until he heard what he wanted to hear—a confirmation or a denial that Alistair and I had been involved beyond friendship.

"We were… closer than friends, I suppose you could say."

"I realize I wasn't your first, and I'm not judging you," he said to my surprise. I was starting to tire of his questions, and I took umbrage at this last remark. I certainly wasn't _his_ first. His former lover Adele made that clear enough. Why make a distinction between my past and his?

"How magnanimous of you," I rejoined, reflecting my rising pique.

"Don't try to throw us off topic. It's a simple question, Winter, and I believe I have the right to know. Were you and Alistair lovers?"

I looked him directly in the eye and said, "No, Teagan. Alistair and I were _not_ lovers." In the interest of fairness, honesty, and full disclosure, I added, "At one time, I thought we might have had a future together but I was mistaken."

"So you are saying I was your second choice."

"What? No! Where would you get such an idea?"

Until now, he'd been fairly sedate in his interrogation, if a bit judgmental. Now his tone turned sharp. "I get the idea from the way you look at him, the way you talk to him, the way you talk _about_ him, and the way he is still very much in love with you. He physically attacked me when he learned we were together, in case you've forgotten. Why would he, if he didn't think he had some claim on you?

"As for your part, you're obsessed with his happiness. You worry too much about his marriage, which is none of your concern. All your fretting over 'Alistair this' and 'Alistair that' makes me wonder if you think marrying an older man like me was a mistake. Maybe you would prefer to be with someone your age. Someone like Alistair."

A long silence passed between us. How could he have said such things? What cause had I given him to doubt my love for him or question my commitment to our marriage? Surely he didn't think I was another Isolde… "I don't understand you any more, Teagan, and your unwarranted jealousy is beginning to wear on me. I care about Alistair. Is that so wrong? Have you not cared about someone without being in love with them?"

"Certainly. I cared about Adele without being in love with her."

_Could he have said anything more inflammatory? I don't think so. _

"Yet she's still in your thoughts, I see," I retorted. "Maybe it's _you_ who want to be with someone else."

"No, my dear girl, you aren't going to turn this around. We're talking about you and _your_ past, not mine."

"If you wanted to hear all about my past, why have you never _asked_ me? I have nothing to hide."

"But you're awfully mum on the subject. I'm beginning to think I don't know you at all."

"I don't speak of it because it was unpleasant! It was painful! It changed me, and I didn't like the cold, unfeeling bitch I became!" We'd had spirited disagreements before, but I had never raised my voice to him. Now I was _shouting_ at him. Jaden, who had been playing nearby, began to cry.

"Look what you've done," Teagan muttered irritably, scooped up the baby, and walked to the stairs. He paused and added, "We are not done here." Then he trotted upstairs to find the nanny.

"Damned right we're not," I shot back.

When he returned, I didn't allow him a chance to quiz me further. I gave him all the information he wanted and then some. "You want to know my past? Fine. Here is my entire story in detail. When I'm done you can question me all you like." I told him of my life in Starkhaven, my parents' murders, and my secret betrothal. He stopped me there.

"You were betrothed? What happened?"

"He betrayed me in ways I couldn't forgive or forget. I didn't _leave_ Starkhaven; I was exiled from my homeland because of false charges, _after_ a stay in jail. But wait, the story gets better. The day I arrived in Ferelden, five bandits tried to ambush me. I killed them all, and if I had it to do over again, I'd do nothing differently. That's when I met Duncan and Aiden. Duncan asked me to join the Grey Wardens, but not until after he watched me fight off the bandits without lifting a finger to help. I was bitter and cold-hearted, resentful of men's treachery and weary of my life. Fighting with the wardens seemed as good a way as any to die. That was my attitude."

"Maker…"

"I met your 'charming' nephew King Cailan at Ostagar. He treated me like a wench and invited me to his tent. It wasn't to get my thoughts on battle strategy, if you get my meaning."

"You needn't continue—"

"Oh, but I _want_ to continue. You must hear it all, then you'll know me more fully than anyone. Isn't that how it should be between spouses?" He waited for me to go on. I did. "Before you ask, I did _not_ accept Cailan's invitation. I turned him down flat in front of Duncan and the other recruits. If I embarrassed him, he deserved it.

"Alistair pushed me into leading our little band of Ostagar survivors and recruiting new members in our travels. Every decision was left up to me. I led them because no one else wanted to take on the responsibility, but I kept as much distance between them and myself as I could. They saw me as a hard-hearted, uncaring bitch who happened to be skilled with swords and with reading the enemy. I didn't want any ties with them beyond what was required to get our missions accomplished. I was doing a duty, and in time, it would lead to my death at the end of a sword. Truthfully, I looked forward to it, because death was better than the emptiness I carried with me every damned day."

"I can scarcely believe… The person I met in Redcliffe was nothing like what you described. What changed you?"

"_You_ changed me, you arse. I was exactly that person when I walked into the Redcliffe chantry. I was strongly attracted to you at first sight—something I hadn't felt in a long time. I hadn't felt _anything_ in a long time. In the months that followed, I thought about you more often than I admitted to myself. I looked forward to visiting you, and practically made up excuses to take my party out of our way to see you."

"My dear, I never knew…"

The hard edge in my voice was gone. I was reminiscing by this point. "No one knew. I didn't know it myself. I grew closer to Alistair, who coaxed me partway out of my self-destructive mindset simply by being kind and caring. I was inexperienced with love and I mistook my feelings for romantic ones rather than friendship. It wasn't until I saw you again that I realized I wanted to be with you.

"So, my wonderful, silly, jealous husband, you had me all wrong if you thought I was a sweet, delicate little flower before we met. I was anything _but_ that. You also had me wrong if you thought I was the type who would fall into bed with any man who caught my eye. There was just my betrothed, which I do regret, and there was you—my heart's only desire. No one else."

He held his head in his hands for a few moments. "I _am_ an arse," he said without looking up. "I see myself getting old, and you're lovely and beguiling and so much younger than I. I let my foolish fear of losing you muddle my thoughts. I'm so sorry, my love." He raised his head, and his expressive eyes were full of remorse. "Can you forgive me?"

"I'm not sure I can," I said, taking his handsome face in my hands and kissing him lightly, not seeing the streaks of gray that recently appeared in his chestnut hair and beard, but seeing him as he was the day we met. "You'll have to make a better apology than that." He caught me up in his arms and carried me upstairs, like he'd done the first time we made love.

I accepted his apology—weak in the knees (he had a way of turning me to jelly with a touch), completely sated, and more deeply in love with him. We lay together and talked, holding hands with our fingers laced together, caressing with our free hands, reaffirming our love. Teagan had a better understanding of me, and he wasn't put off by the knowledge that I'd been a total bitch in my early days in Ferelden. If anything, it amused him.

"Aiden was right about you. You're a force to be reckoned with in a fight, in more ways than one." I knew what he meant. I was well aware I'd been nicknamed "Ice Bitch" by my fellows at camp. This 'ice bitch' kept them alive, and that was my purpose as their leader.

"Mmm. Enough about Aiden, Alistair, and everyone else. This is _our_ night." He agreed. Except for spending a few hours with Jaden, we were as inseparable as honeymooners again.

* * *

"Are you absolutely certain it will work?" Empress Celine asked her court mage.

"Upon my life, it is infallible," the mage answered. "I've blended the potion in cocktails, one for you and one for your husband. You only need persuade him to drink it before bed. It will begin to work in minutes, and will double his seed output. A possible side effect of the potion is it may make him more aggressive." She let her hand hover over the empress' lower belly. "You are fertile, and with the aid of my spell, you will remain in that state until you conceive."

Celine said with a snort of disgust, "He could stand to be aggressive, or pretend to be interested in what he's doing. _Anything_ is preferable to the inert breathing corpse I've had to sleep with. What a disappointment he turned out to be!"

The mage had kept Celine infertile for the past several years at her monarch's request. The young empress was highly promiscuous and didn't want children in the way. Until now. Until one was needed to seal a pact between her country and Ferelden. Alistair insisted on it as part of their agreement, but it would work heavily in Orlais' favor when the heir was grown.

"You will arrange for a wet nurse," Celine ordered. "Once the child is born, turn him over to a nanny for his daily care and the wet nurse for feeding. Just keep it out of my sight."

"At your orders," the mage answered. "I regret that my Lady has to go through the inconvenience of giving birth, all because your agent failed in her assignment, and because Cailan was killed. It would have worked perfectly if Fereldans weren't so stupid."

"Isolde was Orlesian, and _she_ was stupid," Celine snarled. "If she had followed my command and killed her meddlesome husband, the regent would have torn the country apart from within and my troops could have invaded, taking over with no trouble. I would be ruling Ferelden today. It serves her right that she was beheaded." Her tone softened. "But Cailan—my sweet Cailan—he was pliable in my hands. I could have charmed his country from him without his realizing it, because he thought with his male parts rather than his head. He was a deliciously adventurous lover. And best of all, his seed was dead. No children to spoil my body and make demands on my time." She cackled maliciously. "He thought his wife was to blame for not having an heir. The poor dear man, he was too dumb to notice none of the women he bedded became pregnant."

The mage cocked her head and appeared to be listening. "Alistair is here in the city. I sense his presence."

"More likely, you _smell_ his presence. No one stinks like a Fereldan. Do they never wash? Or perhaps, they bathe with their dogs?" She and her mage tittered at the image of Alistair and a big, ugly, thick-bodied mabari hound together in a bath.

Celine asked, "Before you go, tell me: how soon after conception will you be able to confirm it?"

"It will be evident to me immediately after his seed joins with yours."

"Well then, let's make the Fereldan feel welcome, shall we? You go greet him and stall him for a few minutes. I need time to make myself irresistible," Celine said with a wicked smile.

* * *

Alistair was in a foul mood when he reached Val Royeaux. He didn't want to be here—certainly not so soon after his last visit. The ride from Denerim was a grueling two weeks on horseback. He was lucky to have been as close as Rainesfere when he got Celine's message, cutting his travel time by half, but it was still a long ride to an unpleasant destination.

The members of Celine's court scarcely gave him a glance when he walked through the palace. They were conversing in their language, rudely excluding him as if he were a servant instead of the empress' husband.

"King Alistair, welcome," a female voice greeted him. It was Celine's creepy court mage. He couldn't pinpoint _why_ he was put off by her, but she seemed to ooze creepiness from every pore of her pallid, tattooed skin. The hood she wore didn't help either. It added to her overall sinister appearance. What was Celine doing letting an apostate run about in her court, anyway?

"Where is the empress? We have business." He couldn't get away from this woman quickly enough, even if it meant spending a few extra minutes with Celine. To his vexation, the mage wanted to engage him in conversation. She asked him about his trip, his opinion of Orlais and Val Royeaux, if he'd been to such-and-such a city or village—he didn't know his way around the damn country and didn't care to see it. It was all he could do to keep from being rude to her and walking past her. Finally he could take no more of this woman's aimless queries.

"You'll excuse me if I must be on my way. The empress is expecting me and I've already kept her waiting overlong."

"Indeed. She is in her chambers, your Majesty," she said in her creepy-silky voice. Her knowing look told him she was aware of exactly why he was here, and it made him _more_ uneasy.

_Is there _anything_ about these people that doesn't exude sexual innuendo? They make the simplest statements into something sordid._

He found Celine's chambers with minimal difficulty. She was in the far room, her bedroom, and she called to him from there. She waited for him, seated at her vanity with her long legs crossed, wearing a diaphanous gown or robe. Her face was painted to show off her wide blue eyes and long lashes, and her full lips were rouged. Not overdone, but tasteful. She looked ravishing. For all her effort, he didn't feel a hint of desire for her.

Alistair was tired and dirty from his ride. He smelled of horses and sweat, and his armor was chafing him in several places—some of them more delicate than others. He wanted a bath, a good meal, and a long night's sleep. Celine had other plans. She wanted to get down to business. Now.

"I'm quite a mess," Alistair protested. "I've been on the road for a long time…"

"Hush," Celine said. "You smell like Ferelden. A bath cannot remove it."

_Bitch. If that's how you feel about it, fine. You can drown in horse sweat for all I care._

"It's not terribly attractive, is it? Can't we spare a few minutes for me to clean up?"

"I have something to help with your weariness," she cooed, ignoring his questions. She handed him a small glass, as small as a potion flask, but jewel-encrusted. Her hand brushed his, and her fingers trailed back and forth along his skin. He let her play her seduction game, hoping his body would again work independently of his mind. He didn't like to be around her, and surely didn't want to have sex with her. A shudder threatened to break her mood; his couldn't be worse under the circumstances.

She continued the curious hand massage as if she expected it to trip a hidden trigger point of desire. It didn't. He took the glass with his free hand and raised it to his lips. Maybe her stingy amount of wine would help him get through the unavoidable reproductive act. However, the liquid smelled strange. Not like any wine, mead, ale, or strong drink he'd had. It _was_ a potion.

"What are you giving me, Celine? Lyrium? I've had one experience too many with that stuff." He set the glass down without drinking.

She tossed her hair back and laughed at his remark. Every move was calculated to be alluring. Her light robe was so sheer he could almost make out the details of her body. Almost. It was designed to tease the eye. Still he felt nothing.

"Do you need lyrium to make you want me?" she asked.

"I need _something_…" he muttered under his breath. Not low enough; she heard him.

"If I may ask… Are you not fond of women?"

He uttered a harsh laugh. "Yes, I'm fond of women. _Only_ women, since that's what you're really asking."

"But not so fond of me? Shall I have another woman brought in to join us? Perhaps the idea of two women is more appealing to you?"

"_What?"_ The mere suggestion of it disgusted him. What did she think he was—a male whore? A man like Zevran who engaged in sex with anyone and everyone who would have him, be it one-on-one or in a group?

Alistair's upbringing, from the arl's house to the chantry to his time as a templar, taught him to be a gentleman, not a walking mass of hormones in overdrive. He felt rage growing inside him, from his belly to every part of his body. He didn't just dislike Celine any more. His aversion was progressing to deep rancor.

"I just thought… if you aren't attracted to me…" She let her robe fall to the floor and stood bare before him, brazen as a harlot.

Alistair abhorred her. _Abhorred_ her. He hated his body more, because it was betraying him. A surge of need flooded every cell and nerve. At the same time, his head began to pound—a headache like he'd not had since he'd left off his drunken binges. He raised a hand to his brow and tried to squeeze the pain away, to no avail.

"Are you not man enough to take a woman who willingly throws herself at you? Are you not a man at all? Did I wed a worthless Fereldan eunuch?" she taunted him.

He lowered his hand and glared at her through dry, burning eyes. His throat was parched. He felt feverish. The pounding in his head increased as his anger flared. Pain or no, the clamoring need drove him. He reached her in two steps, grasped her by the shoulders and shoved her onto the bed. "Bitch-born whore," he snarled through clenched teeth. "I'll show you what I am."

He didn't disrobe. He didn't care if his armor bruised her or if it crushed her bones. She'd pushed him into this. Her taunts and insults echoed in his mind and fed his rage, and the rage in turn fed his lust. He unleashed it with fury on the writhing woman beneath him. Let her protest and try to escape him. She was unable to twist her body under the weight of his, ineffectually pushing at his chest and begging him to stop. Or was she clinging to his armor and begging him _not_ to stop? Was she crying, or was it laughter? No matter; he wasn't listening to her anyway. Her whimpering gave him as much satisfaction as his release—an aching savage pleasure, fierce in its intensity.

When he was done he pushed off her like he'd been lying on a darkspawn corpse, and it hit him—the most ludicrous notion, but one he found so amusing he followed through with it. He raised a fist to the ceiling and shouted out triumphantly, "For Ferelden!"—his old battle cry from his Grey Warden days. Was that not the point of this farcical marriage—to secure peace for Ferelden? And he _had_ just conquered the she-dragon, hadn't he? That thought, and Celine's startled-puzzled face, made him laugh heartily. He didn't give a damn for appearances or if she thought him insane. He abandoned himself to his mirth until his laughter was spent.

Alistair stood, dismissing Celine altogether, and went to the suite's stupidly ornate washroom. Like the rest of her palace, it was bedecked in gold, silver, and jewels. On each wall was a floor-to-ceiling looking glass. _The whore really loves the sight of herself_, he thought. While he shucked his armor and undergarments, he sang loudly. It was a coarse little ditty he'd learned from his fellow Grey Wardens during his training, before the blight and the war. Its lyrics were unmistakably anti-Orlesian.

He used every drop of water in the ewers to wash himself of the stench of her perfume, which was more odious to him than the horse sweat and weeks of dirt that clung to his skin and hair. He chose not to wear his armor yet, but exited the washroom in his undertunic and breeches—clothing sorely in need of a wash but he didn't care if he stunk. He took a whiff of his sleeve. As he expected, he smelled like Aiden's mabari.

_I'm Fereldan, after all. We stink. Isn't that what you said, dear wife?_

She'd left the room, which was fine by him. He would leave, too, before she returned and he had to listen to her vexatious babble and look upon her painted face. He'd find another suite where he could sleep off his fatigue and the sensation of drunkenness, then he'd return home. He didn't make it past the bed before weariness and dizziness assailed him. His armor slipped from his hands and he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

* * *

In her chambers, the blood mage Grace performed her secret ritual. The true nature of her magic was one of the many secrets she kept from Celine. For a ruler reputed to be wise, the empress was nothing more than an oversexed, immature, easily deluded fool. Grace's spells worked, and that was all Celine needed to know. She would _never_ know that Grace murdered the empress' former lover and bodyguard—the troublesome elf—and disposed of her body in a place it would not be found—in the Fade; an offering of flesh to the abominations she served. With Celine heartbroken and vulnerable, Grace sidled in to comfort and befriend her. Gaining the monarch's trust was child's play.

She uttered an incantation in a language unknown to men, then reached for a dagger on the altar where she invoked the spirits. The sharp blade bit into her palm and her blood trickled into the bowl of herbs and corpse dust. When she felt the cool clamminess of the demon's touch, the ritual was complete. Celine would conceive this night. Satisfied with her work, she placed a finger on the wound in her palm and healed it.

* * *

"Tell me, quickly!"

"It worked. You are pregnant."

"Thank the gods! I don't know if I could have lain with that disgusting, stinking Fereldan again. Although…" she assumed an impish look, "he was a great deal more… _animated_… than before."

The mage's eyes glittered with anger. "So I see. You shouldn't have taunted him so. He was too rough with you, Celine. He could have killed you."

"Little Grace, my pretty one, don't be worried for me. It is over now," Celine purred.

Grace shuddered, covering her revulsion by rubbing her arms as if she were chilled. _Small wonder she has to drug the man to make him sleep with her, _she was aware of the empress' penchant for women but she had no intention of becoming one of her many lovers. Grace had her own love. He was an older man, her mentor, a mage named Decimus who taught her all about the power of blood magic.

"He consumed the potion, I presume."

"He refused to drink," Celine answered, "but you were brilliant! His skin absorbed it just like you said it would, and it worked as well as if he'd drunk it."

"Now all that's left to be done is to keep you healthy for the next nine months. None of your 'special' parties until after the baby is born."

Celine sighed. "It will be a very long nine months. And of course, we will have to go through with the buffoon's coronation. All for show, you realize." Her countenance brightened when she said, "But the end result will be worth all the trouble when we reclaim Ferelden and assimilate the dog lords' land into Orlais. They will not break away again. This child is the guarantee."

They walked across the hall to the empress' chambers. Celine continued, "Do keep a ready stock of your potion on hand, but you're to make one change in your formula. Let it kill the seed of the men who drink it."

"Only on the condition that you stop taunting them," Grace answered. "And I'll not make it until after you've recovered from the birth." Celine agreed. "Now, Empress, do you want the men to be permanently sterile, or only for the duration of the potion's effectiveness?"

"Oh, what a marvelously devious mind you have! Make it permanent. Orlais is full of little noble brats who will grow up and vie for my throne. We could do with less of them."

* * *

Hidden in a nearby alcove, Duke Marc Zacharie eavesdropped on their conversation. What he heard enraged him. He had served as advisor to the late Emperor Florian until his assassination, and when Celine rose to the throne he was elevated to chief advisor. Unlike her more plain-looking, urbane parents and uncle, Celine had grown into a visually stunning woman with a voracious carnal appetite—one she readily shared with every member of her court, as well as visiting dignitaries and foreign royals. He'd had many a turn in her chambers himself. There was a time he thought he was in love with her, but since realized it was nothing more than base physical attraction and a man's natural inclination to protect a woman who appeared to have no sense of self-preservation.

_Everything was fine until this new court mage showed up_, he thought. Since she'd arrived and Celine's former elven lover disappeared, the empress had become vindictive in her dealings with other countries. Marc was the one who had brokered the marriage treaty with Ferelden's chancellor, and he personally liked young King Alistair. It would have been a good match, but the empress' wantonness was driving him off, as it would do any virtuous man. If she were truly with child by him, King Alistair had one ally left in Celine's court—himself. The others despised the Fereldan king without cause. _I'll make sure he comes to no harm_, Marc vowed to himself.

He was one of the empress' most loyal, ardent supporters. But despite his weakness for beautiful young women, Duke Marc was an honorable man. The marriage agreement with Ferelden was unequivocally a peace treaty. If Celine violated the terms, it would reflect badly on Orlais.

He cared for her, but he would see her dead before he allowed her to cut off his lineage, and he'd do everything in his power to foil her plot to disgrace, dethrone, or assassinate Ferelden's least experienced but most noble rulers in recent history. He just wished he'd been able to prevent that damnable mage from drugging the man.

* * *

King Alistair was sound asleep and didn't stir at their approach.

"Look at him, sleeping on the floor like a dog," Celine sneered contemptuously. "How long will he be out?"

"Twelve hours, I should think, since he only received the lesser, topical dose."

"It was plenty enough. The man has considerable strength, I must say," Celine said, recalling his frenzy with a flutter in her stomach. He _could_ have killed her, but it was the most exhilarating sexual romp she'd had in a while. "Send some housemen to remove him from my chambers. He can have a bed in the servants' quarters." The thought of housing a king among her household help amused her. "It's a pity we have no kennel to make him feel at home."

* * *

Part 2 – Alistair's Dark Passenger?

Alistair awoke with a bitter taste in his mouth and his whole body aching. He dimly recalled arriving in Val Royeaux, the palace… nothing else, because he had a hangover like the ones he used to have when he drank heavily. He had a sense of having been extremely drunk but he didn't remember drinking anything since he arrived in Orlais.

He raised his throbbing head, blinked his eyes to clear his vision, and looked around the room. He wasn't in Celine's chambers, and he wasn't sorry for it. Better to sleep in the barn with the livestock than to sleep in her bed.

Memory rushed back with startling detail.

_Maker… what possessed me to behave like that?_ _Aggressive, inconsiderate, barbaric._

As he'd done before, he compared Celine to Morrigan. He detested both women equally, yet had sex with them. The thing with Morrigan was necessary, but he wasn't aware of his actions at the time. Later, when she restored his memories, he learned he wasn't a terribly active participant. In this case, he was _well_ aware of last night. Though Celine reviled him, then stripped naked and threw herself at him like a tramp from the Pearl, the words "active participant" were a gross understatement. What he'd done to her was no better than rape.

_I _raped_ her? Impossible! I wouldn't… I'd never…_

"Maker's blood…" The realization stunned him. He _had_ raped her. She begged him to stop. (Still, he was unsure of what she'd been saying… "Please stop," or "Please _don't_ stop".) Had she really suggested a threesome, or was he delving deeper into his personal perversion? He felt sick inside, heartsick and queasy. What was happening to him? He couldn't claim she'd drugged him because he refused the potion. It was still on the table after…

_after I raped her_

…he'd emerged from the washroom. He recalled seeing the jeweled glass with its contents untouched, and thinking of how he'd outsmarted her. He hadn't been drugged. He didn't perform a selfless act to save someone he loved. He didn't do what he'd done under duress. There was no excuse for his actions, and only one explanation: Deep down, he wasn't the gentleman he'd thought himself to be. He was a callous, sadistic swine.

_Winter once joked that I was a "royal bastard," not in the sense of being the illegitimate spawn of a womanizing king, but a real son of a bitch. If she knew how truthful those words were…_

What's more, he didn't feel genuine regret for abusing Celine, and _that_ wasn't like him. He was at a loss to comprehend this dark side, unaware it existed in him. His sense of chivalry had been blotted out with one heinous deed, along with his self-respect.

_This is too confusing. I feel badly because I _don't_ feel as badly as I ought._

There was one solution to this latest disaster in his life: He would offer Celine a divorce. She would jump at the chance to be free of him. The peace treaty would likely be voided as well, and Eamon's grand scheme for a permanent alliance between Ferelden and Orlais would be quashed for good.

When his head cleared, he rose to dress. Smelling the stench of his clothing, he looked about the room and saw a clean tunic and breeches. He left some silvers in their place, more than enough to purchase several new sets of clothing, then he peeled off his old clothes and pulled on the clean ones. His old tunic reeked so badly he tossed it and the breeches into the fireplace.

He donned and secured his armor and weapons, eager to escape the palace and Orlais and the troubling memories of his inexplicable actions. Before he left the room he noted several narrow bunks and cheap, sparse furnishings. He'd been put in the servants' quarters.

_Fitting, Celine. Not imaginative, but fitting._

He passed the throne room on his way out of the palace. Celine called to him. She sounded excited and happy instead of outraged. She was one truly disturbed woman.

"Yes?" he answered her with all the civility he could muster. The sight of her rekindled his anger. No shame. No regret. No self-loathing. Just wrath. _Andraste's blood, what's happened to me since I've been here? It's like I've been possessed. _ "I was just leaving for Denerim."

She acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred between them. "Wonderful news! I'm pregnant! We're going to have a baby."

"A baby… What… How can you possibly tell so soon?" He was doubtful. Didn't women have to wait a month or two before they knew they were with child?

"My mage is a healer. She can tell, and she says I'm definitely pregnant."

"Oh yes, the apostate. Well, that's great news."

"Aren't you pleased? This is what we wanted. An heir of Orlesian and Fereldan blood, to bring our countries together as one."

_Right. Being ravished like a two-copper whore was perfectly acceptable as long as it achieved the goal. Divorce is no longer an option. Was this your plan after all, Empress? Was I drugged somehow without my knowledge? Or is your creepy court mage actually a blood mage?_

"Whoa, wait a minute. I never agreed to our countries becoming one, Celine." He brought a hand to his temples, massaging them as he'd done the night before. His headache returned, like a blacksmith had taken a hammer to his skull. But this time, there was no lust. He felt nothing but revulsion for the woman carrying his child.

She brushed off his protest. "It was a figure of speech, an unfortunate miswording on my part. I mean that Orlais and Ferelden will be allies throughout the next generation."

He listened for the sound of lies. Being inexperienced and too honest himself, he couldn't detect anything beyond her bubbly exuberance. "As I said, it's great news. Do summon me when you're near your due date if my duties keep me away longer than expected."

He expected his duties to keep him occupied for the full duration of her pregnancy. He would make sure they did.

She had no intention of notifying him of anything. If the handsome but vapid oaf was too dense to count off nine months, he would miss the birth and appear as a fool to her people. Not that he was popular with them or her court anyway…

* * *

Part 3 – The Birth, the Coronation, and a New Ally

Celine gave birth to a son. Alistair arrived a few days after the birth, not having taken into account that nine months was an estimate, not a law of nature. The boy had fair hair and fine features. In truth, all babies looked alike to him. But his was special, like Jaden (his little shadow when he was in Rainesfere). _More_ special, because this child was _his_.

Alistair's his heart filled with love and pride when he held his infant son. He named the boy Duncan MacEwan Theirin. When Celine asked him if those were family names, he answered, "They're the names of the two people I admire most. I'll not be changing it."

"I wouldn't think of it," she answered. She wanted nothing to do with the noisy, smelly thing. What was all the fuss over babies? They were nuisances.

"When he's weaned, I intend to take him to Denerim to see my country."

"What an excellent idea! You know, Alistair, you can take him with you any time. Even now, if you wish. His wet nurse and nanny can travel with him. He'll be fine."

_A wet nurse. She won't even nurse her own baby. What a wonderful maternal figure she is! _

"Isn't he a bit young to be traveling such a long distance?"

"Nonsense. Gypsies and merchants travel the country all the time with their infants. Women give birth on the roadside, pack up their babies, and continue on their way. No harm comes to them. I hear it makes the babies hardier."

When he was in her company for more than a few minutes, she found a way to provoke his ire. The stupidest of men could see she wanted to rid herself of the baby as soon as she could. Alistair was all for taking his son out of this house of filth, but he worried for Duncan's health and comfort. It was a difficult journey for a grown man. How much harder would it be on a newborn?

"I think not. Not yet. He's too young."

"He'll be fine," she repeated.

_Maker curse this bitch. I'll get him out of here today and think of some way to get him safely to Denerim. _

"Summon the wet nurse and nanny. Pack all his belongings, everything they'll need for his care. I'm taking him today."

"Wonderful, darling!" she gushed. "You'll find he's a complete joy to have around."

"How in blazes would you know?" Alistair challenged her. "Have you spent five minutes with him since he was born? I don't think so."

She pouted. "What a mean thing to say. You know I adore the little thing."

_Thing. He was a "thing" to her, not a baby. Not her flesh and blood._

"Notify me when he's ready to go. I'll be waiting at the tavern." He needed a drink badly.

"Wait! We have your coronation to plan, and a huge celebration afterwards. You can't leave Val Royeaux until I grant you your title, can you?"

_I can, and I would if it were possible._ He'd already decided to take a couple of rooms in a hotel for a few weeks, until the baby was older and he felt more comfortable traveling with him. It was the one thing he liked about this city—they had fine temporary living quarters for rent. Not like the small rooms in the average tavern in Ferelden. These were luxurious by comparison, clean and well maintained. If he must go through the coronation, it would give him at least a couple of weeks, and he'd feel more comfortable taking his son on the road.

"Arrange it, and notify me at the hotel across the square. I'll be here for the coronation but not the celebration, so you can plan your 'special parties' if you wish. I'm done with you."

She didn't know how he'd heard about her special parties, but he was hardly the type of guest that would fit in with the others. The celebration she had in mind was a public one, not a private gathering of her close friends and lovers. Still, if he wanted no part of it, she would enjoy herself and it would give her some face time with the populace.

"I was done with _you_ the moment I conceived," she hissed. Celine wasn't used to being rejected, and worse, he had slighted her in front of her court. "But if you would do one last thing for me, perhaps you can bring the baby by for a few minutes during the celebration? The people will want to get a look at the new little emperor."

"That's a cheap, transparent political move, Celine, and my son won't take part in it. See to your people yourself."

She'd wasted no time hustling the baby, the wet nurse, and the nanny out of her palace. Alistair was glad he didn't have to come back for them, and he could stay away from this cursed place until the coronation. _Then_ he'd be done with her once and for all. They could remain married in name only, living apart and not having to lay eyes on each other again.

The hotel was tastefully decorated and spotlessly clean. The décor was meaningless, but he wanted a good atmosphere for Duncan. He saw the two servants and his son to their room, inquired if there were any baby things they needed, and sent a runner to fetch them. With all things in order, he settled in to await his coronation, then his departure from the country.

The baby slept near the wet nurse for his thrice-a-night feedings. During the day, Alistair was a model father. With no experience other than what he'd picked up from watching Winter and Teagan with Jaden, he made it through three and a half weeks without dropping the boy or sticking him with diaper pins. _Not bad for a beginner_, he grinned to himself.

The day of his coronation arrived and he left Duncan with the women while he suffered through a boring, drawn-out ceremony. His coronation as king took minutes. This took ages. It may have seemed so because of his desire to get away from the palace, Celine, and Val Royeaux. Or maybe it was the dirty looks he received from her court. Only one of them, a man he recalled seeing on several occasions, offered him a smile and congratulated him, bowing to him as if he were really the emperor of Orlais and not a hollow figurehead of a monarch.

"Who are you, sir?" he asked the man.

"Excellency, my name is Duke Marc Zacherie. I am the empress' chief advisor. If there is anything you need of me, I am at your service."

_Polite, not cold like all the others, and he sounds sincere._ "Thank you, Duke. I'll keep that in mind."

"Sire, I understand you'll be leaving for Ferelden soon. Shall I order a company of guards to ride with you?"

"I have my own guards, but thank you all the same."

"If I may be so bold, Excellency, they can ride with your men to the border and return to Val Royeaux at your command. The safety of our emperor and empress is something I take with utmost seriousness."

He was persistent. Maybe it wasn't a bad idea after all. "Very well. I'll be leaving tomorrow around mid-morning. They can find me at the hotel."

"Very good, Sire. I'll feel better knowing you and your son are well protected."

_Protected from what, exactly? Or from whom? Celine? Yes, that would be likely, all things considered. They hated each other. It wouldn't be unreasonable to think she or her cohorts would try to do him in. Not that he feared for himself, but now that he had a son, he would give his dying breath to protect him._

He arranged for a coach for the women and his son. It was fairly roomy and more comfortable than riding horseback. The going would be necessarily slow, but he was in no hurry. What mattered was Duncan, and how he took to travel. If Alistair saw he wasn't doing well, he would go to the nearest town and stay there until the boy was strong enough for the journey.

* * *

Part 4 – The New Emperor's Groove

Alistair rode into Rainesfere ten days after leaving Val Royeaux. He allowed the Orlesian guards to accompany him as far as the Ferelden border before he sent them away with his thanks. They were nonplussed. Royalty didn't thank their guards for doing their duty.

The journey thus far had been slow, as he'd anticipated. The baby was so young and he seemed so small and fragile that Alistair was loath to bring him further into Ferelden than Rainesfere. It was the best place he could think of for a break from the difficult life on the road.

Jaden, now twenty-two months old, was the first to spot the coach, and he recognized his beloved "Uncle" Alistair—which he pronounced "Unca Aster"—leading the way. He called to his mum. She looked out the window and saw her visitors, picked up Jaden, who hadn't yet grasped that running toward a horse was dangerous, and she went out to greet them.

Alistair dismounted his horse and took Jaden from Winter's arms, as the boy was leaning toward him with his arms outstretched, throwing his petite mother off balance with his squirming. "Hello there, little man," he said. "I've missed you."

"I miss you too Unca Aster," Jaden answered, wrapping his arms around Alistair's neck and squeezing with all his strength.

"Aster," Alistair repeated, amused. "Great, now I'm a flower." He greeted his hostess. "If it's not too much of an imposition, my party and I need a place to stay for a few days."

"Imposition my eye," she scoffed. "Of course you're welcome here. How many room shall I have prepared?"

"Two, if you please. One for me, and another for…" He stopped and smiled broadly. "You haven't heard the news, have you? Come along." He led her to the coach. "This is my son."

"Ohhh," Winter said, peering through the window. "May I hold him? He's beautiful, Alistair."

He opened the door with his free hand—Jaden still occupied his other arm and refused to be put down—and the two maidservants stepped out. The nanny handed the infant to Winter.

"Papa made me a bow, and I have arrows too," Jaden chattered to Alistair. He didn't see what was so special about the squishy thing in the blanket that so interested his mum. There were more exciting things than that. "He's going to teach me to fight like a soldier."

"Good for you," Alistair said to him. "I'll make you an honorary member of my army. And, I know a secret. You can learn a thing or two about swords from your mum."

Winter looked up from nuzzling Alistair's baby. "Did you have to say that? We haven't told him about my… skills."

"Oops," Alistair grinned sheepishly. "So, now that I've gotten myself into trouble with the lady of the house, where's Uncle Teagan? I need someone to rescue me before I spill any more secrets."

"Papa went to work," Jaden answered, hogging the conversation. "Back tomorrow."

"Oh. He's in Redcliffe then. Maybe this isn't a good time for visiting," he said, looking downcast. Redcliffe had a dirty tavern with dirtier rooms. Not a place he wanted to take Duncan.

"Rubbish," Winter scoffed. "Do come inside and I'll have the maid bring refreshments for you and your maidservants while we wait for lunch." Still holding Duncan, Winter excused herself and went to issue orders to the staff. The baby's wet nurse and nanny took their places among the household staff while Alistair relaxed in the sitting room. Winter returned to see her son pestering the king with endless questions.

"Jaden sweetie, leave Uncle Alistair alone for a while. He's just come from work and he needs to rest." The boy understood "work" to mean anything involving travel.

Jaden obediently released Alistair from the death grip on his neck, but not before he planted a big wet kiss on the king's cheek. When Alistair set him down he toddled off to play with his bow.

"What's his name?" she asked Alistair. "Nothing Orlesian, I hope."

"Do you realize your nose wrinkles every time the word 'Orlesian' is spoken?" he teased. "My son is Fereldan, I'll have you know. His name is Duncan MacEwan."

The boy's mother was Orlesian. What did he mean? Winter wondered at his statement but would question him about it later. "Duncan," she repeated. "How perfect. And… did you say _MacEwan_?"

"I borrowed it from a friend. I hope you don't mind."

"_Mind?_ I'm honored beyond words." She looked at the child's sleeping face. He truly was perfect, and he bore her name. Her eyes wanted to fill with tears but she fought them back. It wouldn't do to go all emotional in front of strangers. _Orlesian _strangers at that.

She let Alistair have a rest from conversation and she spoke to baby Duncan. "Let's have a look at you, Duncan." She pushed the blanket from his head and saw his fine, straw-colored hair. "You're a handsome little prince. Or is it little emperor? How about, for now, you just be a little boy? Titles are such a bother."

"You can say that again," Alistair agreed.

A servant arrived with food and drink, and was immediately followed by another who announced lunch was served. "I'll take lunch if it's all the same to you," Alistair said. "I'm famished."

"You're always famished," Winter joked. It wasn't much of a joke when it was the truth.

Duncan's wet nurse and nanny took their meal in the servant's hall, with Jaden and his nanny. Winter and Alistair dined together in the main dining hall. Winter remarked, "I'm surprised the empress let you take Duncan on such a long trip. He looks to be about a month old."

Alistair said, "Six weeks. As for Celine, she couldn't get rid of him fast enough." Winter's eyes widened in surprise, a look that told him he'd revealed too much. "Forget what I said. I'm delirious from hunger and lack of sleep."

"You've always been a terrible liar."

"There are worse things… like being a _good_ liar. If you don't mind, I'll catch you up on all the gossip tomorrow. I really am drained."

"I've already had water sent up to your suites. You could probably do with a hot bath and a good night's rest," she said.

His mouth curved into a wry smile. "I'm a Fereldan. We stink."

* * *

The Orlesian guards that escorted their new emperor to the border saw the monarch safely to his own land before they retreated about a mile back into Orlais to set up camp. The escort was but the start of their mission. Duke Marc had given orders to which Emperor Alistair was not privy.

Their assignment was to patrol the main road between Orlais from Ferelden—the route the emperor followed when he visited Val Royeaux. They were to watch for bandits, assassins, or any other hostile agents that might try ambush the new emperor, and kill them on sight. If one surrendered, he should be forced, by false promises of freedom or by torture, to divulge the name of the person or parties who had hired them. Once the information was obtained, the hostile was to be killed. The Duke would suffer no loose ends.

"What do you suppose is going on?" the head guard asked his subordinates. "Do you think there's really a plot against the emperor, or is the good duke being over cautious? He has a fondness for Fereldans, though I can't fathom why he finds a country of peasants and fools so special."

"I think Orlesian politics is what he fears," another answered. "How many assassinations of royals and nobles have we seen in our careers alone, much less those in past generations?"

"Settle in, gents," the senior guard said. "It looks like we're in for a long stay in a cold mountain pass. Let's see if we can find a suitable cave overlooking the road. We'll be protected from the worst of the weather and we'll have a good view of any travelers."

They trudged up toward the cave, leading their horses over the rocky terrain rather than riding them and risking a fall. One guard asked another, in a low voice so the senior wouldn't overhear him, "Who do you think would want to do the emperor in? He seems a polite sort, and he hasn't had time to make enemies."

"If I had to venture a guess, I'd say it would be the empress herself. The palace guards say she and the new spouse aren't exactly crazy about each other."

"Hmph. If that were all there was to it, my wife would have had me killed years ago."

* * *

The first rumblings of conspiracy began immediately following Celine's wedding. They increased after the emperor's coronation. Within the court, it was the main topic of discussion. The nobles and advisors spoke in terms of 'what if something happened to him' and 'it would be unfortunate if he died', but Marc had been around long enough to read through the veiled remarks. A genuine threat was afoot, and being a seasoned politician himself, he played along with them so he could keep tabs on the progress of the plot against the Fereldan. It wasn't right, whatever they were planning. He wasn't going to sit by and let it happen if he could prevent it. He had made powerful allies over the years. He _would_ prevent it, whatever the cost.

* * *

Teagan was delighted to see Alistair's son. He was a handsome child by any standards (though none could compare to his own Jaden). The king and his maids stayed with them for a full two weeks. During that time, Jaden warmed up to the infant.

"He's noisy and messy and he won't talk, but I guess he can be my little brother." Teagan and Winter exchanged glances.

"What? What's with the looks? Are you two expecting again?" Alistair asked.

Winter answered him, "No. I wish… but maybe the taint has… taken a toll…" She could hardly speak of it. Barrenness was a sore topic for her. She and Teagan wanted another child, but it wasn't meant to be. Accepting the fact was the hard part.

"Oh. I'm sorry for asking. I'm an idiot," Alistair said.

"Not at all," Teagan said. "What of Duncan's mother? Does the empress not miss her boy?"

Alistair had been avoiding the subject, but there was no sense being evasive. "Celine and I are… I don't know what to call it… separated, I suppose? We aren't compatible. We have nothing in common. She doesn't like children. I don't like Orlais _or_ Celine. So Duncan will be living with me permanently."

"I'm sorry," Teagan said. "I had hoped… Well, political marriages and all… Damn it, this is awkward."

"Forget it, and forget about her," Alistair said. "We have a peace treaty and I have an heir, so I've no need to go back to Orlais."

Famous last words… But for the next few years, he'd have no dealings with Orlais.


	26. Revolution and Devastation

Revolution and Devastation

Part 1 – It Was the Best of Times…

* * *

My life was blessedly ordinary. No wars, no darkspawn, no battles, not even a bandit raid to mar the peaceful day-to-day joy of marriage and raising my son. Teagan's routine consisted of twice-weekly trips to Redcliffe. He would spend the night in the castle and return the following day by noon. Our pattern was so predictable others might have though it boring. Not us. We were happy, and ours was a life of sublime contentment.

Jaden was growing up too quickly for me. He'd just passed his sixth birthday. I wanted him to stay little and cuddly; he wanted to be big and strong like his papa and his "uncles"—Uncle Alistair, Uncle Aiden, Uncle Eamon ("except for the nasty beard," he said with a grimace), Uncle Garavel, Uncle Perth, Uncle Bryant. It was his idea to give them the title of uncle, and he expected something in return for that honor. They were required to teach him how to use weapons.

In his free time, Teagan fashioned child-sized wooden daggers, swords, bows, war axes, shields, battleaxes, and greatswords for him, overlaying the blunt edges with leather or cloth. Arrows had dull tips and only penetrated the straw-filled burlap targets we'd set up. Jaden had an impressive arsenal for a boy, and his dexterity was improving rapidly.

"It won't be long before he'll insist on metal-tipped arrows," Teagan remarked. "He's complained that the wooden ones are 'child's toys'." I worried he was too young for real weapons, but Teagan maintained that Jaden was a responsible lad. He added with paternal pride, "Our son is a prodigy, I do believe."

It was true. Jaden's vocabulary, reasoning, and motor skills were advanced for a child so young. Physically, he appeared completely average, if a little taller than the norm (and already quite handsome, with his black hair and cobalt blue eyes). Mentally and emotionally, he exhibited wisdom well beyond his years. He was intellectually above his peers, but I had yet to see so much as a suggestion of arrogance in his attitude and speech. For each year of his life he seemed to mature two years or more. _Maternal_ pride, you say? You would be right.

As for the use of real weapons… "If you think he's ready for them, I trust your judgment," I said. "But he's to use the straw targets for now. I'll not have him practicing on anything else until he learns to hunt."

"Speaking of hunting…" Teagan had already planned to take him on a hunt when autumn set in. "He'll be ready by that time. It will be good practice for him, and if I don't take him soon he'll bedevil me to death with his insistence."

Every time he had to go to Redcliffe, Jaden wanted to tag along with him. Teagan told him it would be dreadfully boring, there wouldn't be time to play or hunt, he'd be going from one meeting to the next, from morning until bedtime. I found it boring just from hearing about it. Jaden would have been miserable and restless. I seconded Teagan's refusal and Jaden let it rest… until the next trip. And the next. It was an ongoing battle of wills between my men, one Jaden was determined to win and Teagan was equally determined _not_ to let him win.

* * *

We had frequent visitors or went on holiday as often as Teagan's work allowed. Aiden, Alfstanna, and their brood were our most frequent guests. They had a child for each year of their marriage: the oldest were twin boys, followed by a petite, pixie-like daughter. Then there was the ten-month-old boy, and Alfstanna was pregnant again.

Aiden, like me, had retired from the wardens to be with his family. I pointed out, with a straight face but in jest, that he should consider another tour of duty in the wardens to give his poor wife a break from breeding. She stepped in and said, "Not a chance." They were a lovely couple, completely devoted to each other. The footloose Aiden had become a marvelous husband and father, much like the late Teyrn Bryce Cousland.

Jaden cornered Aiden and persuaded his uncle to show him some of his bow techniques. _The lad is awfully young,_ he thought. _Can he pull back a bowstring with enough force to send an arrow more than a few feet? _ With a nod from Teagan, he took Jaden aside and tried to school him with beginner moves.

"Uncle, I've known that since I was a baby," Jaden grumbled. A small exaggeration, but it wasn't too far from the truth. "Show me how _you_ use a bow."

Never one to refuse a challenge, Aiden thought to teach my son a lesson in humility by showing off his formidable archery skills (ironic, right?). Jaden's toy bow was too crudely made for his purposes. He asked Teagan's permission to use real weapons—a scheme they cooked up without my knowledge while I was engaged in conversation with Alfstanna and helping her keep her children rounded up.

On their way to the lakeside where Teagan had set up the targets, Aiden confided to Jaden, "This is just between us men. Your mum will _kill_ me if she finds out we're using real weapons."

Jaden found that hilarious. "_My_ mum? Papa says she wouldn't hurt a bug."

Aiden chortled. "Right. She wouldn't hurt a bug. Not a small one, anyway." _Varterrals and giant corrupted spiders, on the other hand…_ he thought.

Aiden made a point of exhibiting his finest tricks, using his best longbow—a gift from Winter—called the Sorrows of Arlathan. Jaden was enthralled. Uncle Aiden's arrows _destroyed_ his targets. The pristine lakeshore was now a mess of straw and tattered burlap. Jaden demanded to try his hand at it. With no more targets to obliterate, they were stymied.

"The tree over there," Jaden suggested, pointing to a tree with a five to six-inch diameter trunk. "I'll shoot that one."

"Sure, go ahead and try," Aiden said, confident the boy would find it took a lot more strength than he possessed to launch an arrow with enough force to penetrate the _bark_ of a tree of that size, much less the solid wood. He handed the lad his shortbow and an arrow from the quiver. "A shortbow doesn't have the power to—" His words were halted when he watched the arrow not only penetrate the tree bark but also the trunk, coming to rest with the shaft embedded fully into the trunk with the point sticking out one side of the tree and the fletching on the other.

"Andraste's big fat flaming… Maker's breath," he caught himself. "How did you do that with those skinny arms of yours? Let me try." He took the shortbow, loaded an arrow and pulled the string back fully before letting it fly. His perfect aim, coupled with his strength, split Jaden's arrow but his shot only penetrated the trunk to a depth of two inches.

Not to be outdone by a little boy, he laid the shortbow aside and snatched up his longbow. He'd shot arrows through and through many a darkspawn's body with it. If anything could penetrate a tree, that bow could. But to make good and sure, he used a sturdier arrow. His second shot was better, but it wasn't nearly as good as Jaden's.

"You were lucky," he concluded. "Probably hit a soft spot in the trunk."

Jaden smiled up at him innocently. "Yes Uncle, you're right. Now would you please show me how to shoot two arrows at once?"

"Your hands aren't big enough yet, fella," Aiden muttered, still smarting from being bested on the tree-shooting competition. In the end, he gave in and showed Jaden how to hold two arrows and position them properly. It was too advanced for the boy but he showed promise. He'd likely be expert at it by the time he was seven. "That's enough for today. Let's quit before I lose all sense of manliness."

'Thank you, Uncle." Jaden's grateful hug erased any inkling of annoyance. He was a good lad. Smart, polite, obedient, and genuinely gifted. _Not cocky like his mum_, Aiden thought with amusement. _He must have taken after Old Redbeard._

* * *

Alistair and little Duncan also came by regularly, spending as much time as the king's schedule would permit. I assumed he was taking the child to visit his mother in Orlais, but learned he hadn't set foot inside the country since he took custody of his son. He'd glossed over just how badly, and quickly, his marriage had deteriorated.

Out of Duncan's hearing, he said, "If you had the misfortune of meeting her, five minutes in her company would give you all the reasons I want nothing to do with her. More importantly, I don't want her anywhere near Duncan." He didn't elaborate but his declaration was troubling. It wasn't mere incompatibility or an unwillingness to accept each other's culture. I was curious as to exactly what happened, but pressing him for details would have been a giant step out of bounds. Teagan was right: Alistair's marriage was none of my concern.

Over the past few years, especially since Duncan's birth, we'd grown close again. We were all family in my mind—my household, with Alistair and Duncan. I'd all but forgotten Eamon, who rarely made the trip due to his declining health.

Late one evening, after we'd put the boys to bed and Teagan had retired because he'd be leaving for Redcliffe the next morning, Alistair and I stayed up and talked a while.

"I know you want to ask, so go ahead," Alistair said. "You want to know why the marriage failed."

I was speechless. He'd sensed my thoughts, and I flushed with embarrassment. "It's… No, I wouldn't ask of it. It's not my place."

"The Winter I remember would _demand_ answers," he said, referring to how strict and tough I was on him when we were wardens, and evidently forgetting those were battle situations. "I hardly know how to act around you these days. You're too nice."

I scoffed at his remark. "Too nice indeed. I'm not in a position of leadership or combat, that's all."

"You would have been if I'd had my way. I wanted you to lead Ferelden's armies before I learned you were with child."

"Is that so? You had no qualms about sending me back to Amaranthine when I was pregnant."

"No qualms? I had plenty of qualms, I'll have you know. I was a walking mass of qualm."

I tittered. "I don't think there's such a thing as a 'walking qualm'."

"If there was, I was it," he insisted. His manner sobered. "Since you won't ask, I'll tell you. First off, I didn't want to marry the empress of Orlais. I wasn't ready to marry _anyone _yet, but Eamon kept insisting and pushing until I gave in, if for no reason other than to show him a marriage between Ferelden and Orlais wouldn't happen. Next thing I knew, I had a signed treaty and an Orlesian fiancée. You'll recall how 'fond' I am of Orlesians," he scowled.

"Celine seemed alright at first, before the wedding. There was something…_off_ about her, but I thought it was merely that she was Orlesian. I didn't realize how much I disliked her until it was too late. To break off the engagement would have nullified the treaty, and that was the only thing I cared about at the time. So I went through with it for my country's sake.

"As it turned out, she was possibly the most vulgar woman I've seen outside the Pearl. And don't take that to mean I've been _inside_ the Pearl except when we went there on missions. She was as loathsome to me as Morrigan."

It was a startling comparison. "I'm sorry," I said. I pitied him but political alliances were part of a monarch's duty. Still, I wished it had been a happy union for his sake, and told him so.

"That was too much to hope for," he mused. "I would have settled for a _tolerable_ marriage. But it wasn't tolerable. _She_ wasn't tolerable. Celine and her closest confidantes are evil in a way I can't quite grasp, but my templar training makes me think there was blood magic at work.

"One positive thing came out of it. I have my son, and he's the only reason I don't regret it."

* * *

Over the summer we went on holiday. First we traveled to Denerim to see Eamon. Teagan was concerned for his brother's health, and he was saddened to see how rapidly Eamon had aged in the past few years. He was sixty years but looked closer to seventy. His strong voice was growing weaker, and it had a noticeable tremor. Eamon's gait was slower and he appeared to be in discomfort all the time.

He made light of our concerns and invited us to use his Denerim manor for the duration of our stay. I hadn't been there in years, since I'd recovered from killing the archdemon. The home was well maintained but empty except for his live-in servants. Eamon lived at the palace. He said traveling back and forth every day was troublesome, but we knew it was due to physical pain.

Jaden thought the house was as grand as the palace, but his excitement was as short-lived as his attention span. Alistair allowed Duncan to stay with us while we were in Denerim, and the two boys were good companions, close as brothers but with less fighting than true siblings.

After a couple of weeks in Denerim, we went to Amaranthine. The city was still under repair but we went—of all places—to Vigil's Keep. Jaden was keen to see where his mum used to work, and I was anxious to see Garavel and the others again. Garavel and Bryant made a couple of trips to Rainesfere when Jaden was younger, but the duties of seneschal and warden-commander kept them confined to the Vigil most of the time.

We met Nathaniel in the courtyard. He had moved up in rank, but Bryant considered him too hot-headed for further advancement. If he got his temper and all-around bad attitude under control, he'd make a fine senior warden. Nathaniel told us he was leaving the Vigil for good, having given Bryant notice that he was going to the Free Marches. There were too many unpleasant memories in Amaranthine. Besides, his only living relatives were in or near Kirkwall, he said. He'd most likely join up with the wardens in the Marches, led by an Orlesian senior warden named Stroud—a firm but fair leader, from what I'd heard. He might be exactly the type to help Nathaniel put the past in its proper place and advance, as he deserved. I wished him the best and we shook hands. No hugging for this fellow. A tiny thread of animosity remained between us, on his side.

Bryant learned of our arrival and came out to greet us. Jaden caught sight of Bryant's greatsword. "Uncle Bryant, now that I'm grown, can you teach me to use a greatsword like yours?"

Bryant didn't know how to answer. Jaden was so young... "Son, I'm not sure your parents would allow it. Swords are quite dangerous."

My son wouldn't be denied. He ran to our quarters and came back with his child-size greatsword. When Bryant saw it, he gave in to my precocious boy and showed him some simple techniques. "First, you have to hold it like this," he said, demonstrating the proper hold. "Then, when you swing it…" he said, slowly bringing the heavy sword around in a long arc. "Like that. You'll have to put your weight behind it, but the sword will carry through when done correctly."

"Like this?" Jaden asked, clumsily swinging his wooden sword.

"That's not bad," Bryant said. It _was_ pretty bad, but we didn't want to discourage him. He was a gangly boy—all limbs that were usually well coordinated, but the large greatsword was a new weapon for him. "Keep practicing."

Teagan and I talked to Bryant about the keep and the remaining wardens, and the newer ones I'd not met, while Jaden continued to swing his sword about. Then came the inevitable. Teagan, being male and wary of such accidents, saw it coming first.

"Bryant!" he called. There wasn't enough time to say more.

Jaden's sword smacked him squarely in the crotch. Bryant's eyes widened, he gasped, his hands flew to cover his assaulted crotch, and he slumped slowly to his knees, coughing and looking like he wanted to puke.

"Maker! Oh Bryant I'm so sorry. Jaden, you put that away right now," I babbled, embarrassed for him and upset with myself for being too preoccupied to catch Jaden before he'd done harm.

Teagan got on one knee beside Bryant. "Apologies, friend. It happened so quickly I didn't have the time to warn you."

Bryant nodded. When he caught his breath, he said, "I learned an important lesson. A templar's skirt does nothing for protection. I'm trading it in for some real armor today."

Later that week, fully armored and protected, Bryant gave Jaden a few more lessons with two-handed weapons. Garavel joined in the fun (after a warning from Teagan to make sure his male parts were well shielded). His expertise was sword and shield like Teagan, but he could wield a battleaxe quite well. By the time we left to return to Rainesfere, Jaden had picked up some new skills and managed to break every one of his toy weapons. I wondered if those breaks were done purposely when he asked his father if it wasn't about time for _real_ weapons.

* * *

Autumn returned and the weather was glorious. I spent more time outdoors enjoying the cool breezes and the scents, sounds, and colors that accompanied the season. While I basked in the beauty of our bannorn, my two gentlemen planned their hunting trip. Not a day went by without Jaden asking Teagan, "Can we go today, Papa?" followed by a disappointed, "Why not?" and "Can we go tomorrow, then?"

While they were making their plans, Alistair rode up with Duncan. Normally the child's nanny traveled with them, but this time it was just the king and the prince. Duncan considered himself too old for a nanny at the ripe age of four, and Alistair allowed it this one time to see if the lad could get on without constant supervision. Possibly not his best judgment call, but who could blame him for falling for Duncan's innocent face and his earnest promise to behave?

When Alistair heard about the hunt, he said wistfully, "I envy you two. I haven't been hunting in years, it seems. If you don't count the foraging for food we had to do during the blight. Hardly a proper hunt."

"Come with us," Teagan said. "It will be fun."

"I can't," Alistair answered. "I can't bring Duncan. He's too young. I'd be so busy running after him I couldn't concentrate on game."

"Go with them and leave Duncan with me," I offered—the obvious solution. "It's just an overnight trip to the woods near Redcliffe. The break from duty and your stuffy court of old windbags and seahags might do you good."

He smiled at my assessment of his court. "It would, but… are you sure? Duncan is a handful."

"I'm positive. Go," I insisted. "Duncan and I will get on just fine." I picked up the boy and said, as if sharing a big secret, "You and I are going to have a sleepover party. Just us; with no grown-ups to tell us what to do. How does that sound?" Oblivious to the fact that I was also a grown-up, he was _thrilled_. First he ditched the nanny, now the other adults… This was total victory.

Duncan _was_ a handful, but not in a bad way. He was a curious boy, asking hundreds of questions over the two days I had him to myself, most of them "why" queries to which there were no good answers. I made some up as we went along, aware that he was too young to remember much of what I told him.

I kept him occupied with all the activities I could think of but none held his attention for long. When I took him to see our stables, I hit upon his favorite thing. The boy loved horses and wanted to be able to ride like his papa. So we went for a ride together on my gentlest old mare, all the way through Rainesfere northward on the Imperial Highway until we reached the far end of the bannorn, then heading back before we ventured into the open plains.

When we reached the manor, I slid off the horse and let him sit in the saddle. Taking the reins, I led the horse on a slow walk, keeping an eye on Duncan's balance. He did well, clutching the horse's mane with both fists and trying to urge her to go faster by kicking his heels in her side like he'd seen Alistair do. His heels only reached right below the saddle, and the mare paid him no mind. This kept him occupied until it began to grow dark. He put up a fuss when I told him it was time to go inside, and I practically had to pry him off the horse.

"Whenever you visit, this will be your horse," I said. His big amber eyes grew wider with delight. I hadn't noticed before how much he looked like Alistair, but those eyes were just like his father's.

After he'd had his dinner, I told him stories. It didn't take long for me to run out of tales that were appropriate for a young child. Luckily, we had plenty of storybooks. I wanted to tuck him into bed before I read to him. Being an affectionate little fellow, he wanted to sit on my lap. He won out. I read book after book until his eyes grew heavy and his head began to droop against my chest. His arms went around my neck and he snuggled against me. _This little angel has had no mother_, I thought with a pang of sadness. _No matter how good his nanny may be, there's no substitute for a mother's love._

My heart went out to him, and I held him until I started to doze off as well. In the times he'd spent the night at our house, he and Jaden shared a room. I couldn't leave the child all alone even if he _was_ familiar with our house. I worried he might wake during the night disoriented and afraid. So I brought him to my room and put him in my bed. He stayed right against me all night, holding onto my neck or arm or hand. If he woke and wasn't touching me, he would reach for me and cuddle closer. It brought back sweet memories of when Jaden was a toddler.

In the morning he was up early. His first question was, "Is my papa coming back today?" When I said yes, the next question was, "Can we ride my horse before he gets here? I want to show him I can ride as good as he can."

We were riding—rather, Duncan was riding while I walked the horse—when the hunters returned. Teagan's horse carried two full sacks of game they had killed. We would be well supplied with rabbit and quail for the winter. Alistair had a fine halla buck lashed to the back of his horse.

Before I could comment on their success, Duncan called out to Alistair. He was so proud of himself, riding like a big boy. Alistair praised him as if he'd just won a jumping competition. When Duncan told him the mare was _his_ horse, Alistair started to correct him. I cleared my throat to get his attention and gave him "the look", like I used to do when we fought together, that told him not to say anything until I had a chance to explain. King or not, he still remembered his training, I noted (with a touch of satisfaction), and he went along with it.

Teagan bragged on our son's prowess with the bow. "It's like he can sense the prey before he sees them. Each time he made a kill, he had his arrow aimed at the exact spot the animal appeared. It was uncanny."

Alistair added, "Growing up, I heard Cailan was the finest archer in Ferelden. I never thought a boy so young could fire arrows with that kind of accuracy. It's almost…" He searched for the right word.

"You'd better not be thinking 'creepy'," I warned (smiling, but inwardly serious).

"Absolutely not! He's pretty incredible. It's like Teagan said. He seems to sense the animals…"

He and I were thinking the same thing, I believe. My son exhibited skills most grown men couldn't attain. There was something special about him. Something… supernatural? The more he grew and developed, the more reason there was to believe at least _some_ of the things Morrigan had told me about him were true. Immortality? I didn't accept that. The ability to command dragons? Hog toss. But there was no denying his intelligence and rapid advancement set him apart from other children. If he _did_ have the ability to sense the presence of animals, was it due to the soul he'd supposedly inherited?

"Well, your trip wasn't a total loss. You managed to bag a nice halla," I said to Alistair.

"Me? I wish I had! This is Jaden's kill. He had him in his sights before Teagan and I knew the buck was around." He looked at Teagan. "Did I kill _anything_?"

Teagan shrugged. "I don't know if I did either. This boy was firing off arrows faster than I could keep up with him, and it seemed I was only there to collect his kills."

"Show off," Alistair teased Jaden.

Instead of bragging on himself as I thought he might, he said, "You did fine, Uncle Alistair. I know of at least two rabbits you killed. Maybe three, and a quail."

"Oh great, that makes me feel better," Alistair said with mock exasperation. "I wonder how I got those few."

"I was busy tracking the halla," Jaden answered. He realized as soon as he'd said it that he sounded boastful. "I'm sorry, Uncle and Papa. I hope I didn't ruin your hunt."

Alistair ruffled Jaden's coal-black hair. "Not at all. I enjoyed being with you fellows. That was the best part."

He was right; being with family was the best part of life. The past six years, for me, had been more fulfilling than anything I could have hoped for. I had a devoted, sexy husband, a loving son, my dear friend Alistair, and his adorable boy Duncan. It truly was the best of times.

* * *

Part 2 – Coming Undone

In Denerim, Eamon waited for the king to return from his latest trip to Maker-knew-where. King Alistair had made a habit of running off without telling him. It was frustrating, and oftentimes embarrassing when nobles and officials came to call with the king on holiday and his chancellor hadn't a clue where the monarch was.

Eamon had received an urgent message from Orlais, sealed with the royal seal, for Alistair's eyes only. He knew the king's marriage to the empress was going badly. How could he _not_ be aware? Whenever her name was mentioned, Alistair refused to discuss her. It wasn't something he could have anticipated after his many meetings with her chief advisor, and after obtaining the empress' agreement to the union.

Alistair strode into the throne room with Duncan riding on his shoulders. _How regal_, Eamon thought bitterly. _He's behaving like a child himself._

The king had another bad habit of stopping whatever he was doing when the child was about. In the most recent episode, he'd interrupted a meeting with Viscount Dumar of Kirkwall when Duncan escaped his nanny, as the lad did with increasing frequency, and ran to his father. Rather than send the boy out or instruct a maidservant to remove him from the throne room, he sat the child on his lap and talked to him with the viscount waiting patiently for them to finish. Eamon was mortified. Alistair was oblivious. The viscount—thank the Maker—endured the sight with understanding and grace, himself being the widowed father of a grown lad.

Eamon ventured, "The prince's nanny has been waiting for him. She's concerned his absences are interfering with his lessons. And Sire, I've received an urgent missive from Val Royeaux."

Alistair had a maidservant take the boy to his nanny. When the child was gone, Eamon handed Alistair the letter. "As you can see, it bears the royal seal, Majesty."

Before Alistair read the message he said to Eamon, "Send the nanny away. I want her gone as soon as possible. Find a Fereldan nanny and tutor for him."

"I beg pardon, Sire, but if I may ask, what has the woman done? She may have spoken too boldly but is that cause enough to fire her? If she's offended or mistreated the prince or breached protocol—"

"I won't have my son raised by an Orlesian woman," Alistair cut him off. "Already his speech is marked with a foreign accent. I won't have it, Eamon. Duncan is Fereldan, no matter where his birth occurred. His mother rejected him and that's the best thing she could have done for him. He is _my_ son, and I'll decide what's best for him."

"Of course, your Majesty," Eamon conceded, baffled by the sudden decision. Alistair had never shown dissatisfaction with the woman before. What could have happened?

_What else? He's been to Rainesfere again. He's comparing Duncan to Jaden._

Alistair mentally dismissed Eamon, aware of his chancellor's fondness for Orlesias and irked by it, and broke the seal on the letter. It wasn't from Celine. It was from Duke Mark Zacherie, and it was… a threat? No, a warning not to come to Val Royeaux. It read:

"Your Majesty King Alistair,

"I have long suspected a plot against your life. I now have evidence of the far-reaching

conspiracy and the names of those involved. For your safety's sake, I implore you not to come to Val Royeaux until my associates and I deal with this threat. There will be a revolution in the coming days, for the good of Orlais as well as Ferelden.

I will message you as soon as the conspirators have been executed and order restored."

Duke Marc Zacherie"

He slouched in his throne, staring off at nothing in particular, and thinking over what he'd read. A plot against his life. From whom? Celine? Probably not from her personally, but she was involved somehow. Their hatred for each other was so strong it was damn near tangible. The creepy mage? Very likely. The royal court? Almost certainly.

Why was this duke so interested in his well-being? He must have something to gain, but what? Why would he warn him off when it would have been as easy to summon him into a trap, and after doing away with Celine, to kill Alistair, the paper emperor—the only one that stood between him and the throne, and take it for himself?

There was also Duncan to consider. As Celine's son (he cringed at the thought), the boy was the one (known) legitimate heir to the throne after Alistair. He'd not written to or heard from her in four years. She could have gone through several more husbands by now (_Maker help them_).

He didn't know what was going on and the letter raised a lot of questions. He wanted answers, and if it meant going into a fight to get those answers, so be it.

Having made his decision, he rose from his seat. "I'm leaving for Orlais in the morning. Duncan is coming with me. I don't know how long I'll be gone but it's best if you don't try to contact me."

"Understood, Majesty," Eamon said. _The message must have been from Empress Celine. If he's taking their son along to see his mother, they're ready to put aside their differences and make the marriage work. _

"Take my sword and wake the blacksmith if you must, but I want it sharpened before I go. And my heavy armor—have it repaired, and make sure he checks my shield for damage. I want everything ready as early as possible. It's a long two weeks to Val Royeaux. There's no time to waste." He started for his chambers when Eamon spoke up.

"Your… weapons and armor, Sire? I trust this is just a precaution." Alistair never went anywhere unarmed, but he'd not asked to have his weapons and armor checked and repaired since he took the throne.

"No," Alistair answered grimly. "It would seem I'm in for a fight." He turned from Eamon, unmindful of his chancellor's alarmed expression, too weary for explanations, going to his chambers to try to get some sleep. He had pressing business in the coming weeks. Deadly business by the sound of it.

"But Sire, you're taking Duncan?" Eamon called after him. Alistair gave no reply to Eamon's prying question. Instead, he stopped and added, "Hold off on sending the nanny back to Orlais, but I want her out of the castle first thing in the morning. Put her in the Gnawed Noble."

In his chambers, Alistair dropped his armor and fell across his bed. His body was tired but his mind was too active to allow for sleep. He was angry. He'd hardly spent enough time in Orlais, and _none_ among the court, to have caused an uprising there. Whatever the reason behind it, he didn't take kindly to threats and he wouldn't back down or hide from Celine or her conspirators.

* * *

Teagan was ready to leave for Redcliffe when Jaden bounded down the stairs and started his twice-weekly "Papa-take-me-with-you" nagging. Today he was adamant. "I _really_ should go with you, Papa. You might need me."

Teagan made his usual argument: His work required his full attention and he wouldn't have time for playing, sword lessons, and possibly not even the time to have meals together. He ended with, "Please son, let's not go through this again today. I have to get going. I need you here to help Ser Perth take care of your mum and the house while I'm gone. Now give your old man a hug."

Our boy was unusually stubborn this morning. He insisted on going, saying he'd be fine alone and he could wait while his papa worked. He could amuse himself. He didn't need constant attention. Teagan refused, as did I. Regardless of how mature he sometimes seemed to be, he was still a six-year-old.

"I wish you would listen to me," he said sadly. He hugged Teagan, kissed his papa on the cheek, and let him go, resigned that he'd lost the battle again. Then he returned to his room, walking slowly as if he were heartbroken. I'd never seen him behave this way. What in blazes was so interesting about Redcliffe?

My husband confided, when Jaden was well out of hearing range, "There have been reports of bandits on the road between here and Redcliffe. Not confirmed reports, but I'd not be foolhardy enough to bring him into what could be a frightening situation for him. I suspect he's heard the rumors, though I don't know who would have spoken to a child about such things."

"Bandits? I don't like the sound of that myself," I said. "How many knights are going with you?"

"Perth will be staying here to guard the house, along with two Redcliffe guards that returned with me on the last trip. The rest of the knights and a few more guards, will accompany me. There are eight of us in all. Don't worry, love; I'll be perfectly safe. I'll be back tomorrow at the usual time." He kissed me goodbye, asked me to check on Jaden, and left with his entourage.

I admit there was a nagging fear in my gut, but seeing the party of armed, trained fighters was encouraging. Bandits traveled in small groups. They'd be outnumbered two to one at the least, and these men were the finest fighters in the arling. I shook off the silly fear and went to find Jaden. His behavior needed some firm correction.

He sat at his window watching the guards ride off with his papa at the head of the group.

"Jaden, we need to talk—"

"Please, mum, can I watch them go? I feel bad for upsetting Papa and I want to see him off."

What difference would a couple of minutes make? Maybe I was being too lenient, but I felt he was already aware of what he'd done wrong. I let him watch until the party of men rode past the hills and out of sight. "He wasn't upset with you, dear. He was running late and had to leave. Papa's not angry with you."

"I'm glad," he answered, watching the deserted road, not sounding too glad.

"Come on. I'm sure Ser Perth has some things he can show you about battleaxes." His spirits lifted and he tore off downstairs to pester Perth.

_Sorry, Perth. He's in need of cheering, and you've been so gracious…_

Minutes later I could hear them in the yard. I do believe Perth enjoyed the lessons as much as Jaden did, if not more. As first knight, he was duty-bound to remain single, devoting his life to service. _What a loss for some single woman out there,_ I thought. _He's a fine gentleman._ He was patient with Jaden, showing him techniques he'd learned in years of battle.

I settled into my usual daily routine, confident all was well.

* * *

Alistair pushed his horse as hard as he dared, flying over the roads westward to Redcliffe, then north toward Rainesfere. Duncan shared his saddle, bounced along for a full day and half a night with few stops. His son was well past the point of fatigue and Alistair felt terrible for keeping him from his rest, but the business was too urgent to allow for anything but the necessities. He had to get Duncan to safety, then press on to Val Royeaux to deal with whatever chaos he'd find there. If what the Duke said was accurate, the city was in a full-scale revolution.

Orlais wasn't his problem. He didn't care if Celine were deposed. She didn't deserve to lead a village much less a powerful empire. What concerned him was who would take her place on the throne. Would her successor be willing to ally with Ferelden, or would his country face another war with the highly-trained chevaliers?

He arrived at Teagan and Winter's manor sometime between midnight and dawn. He dismounted carefully, and his sleeping son slid off into his arms. His arrival wasn't exactly quiet—the house steward opened the door for him, having seen it was the king come to call.

"I must speak with the arl," he said.

"Sire, the arl is in Redcliffe. The arlessa is home."

"Wake her and tell her I have urgent business. And for the Maker's sake, man, don't frighten her. Make sure she knows this isn't about the arl."

Winter was down in a few minutes, looking sleepy but, to his eyes, radiant. She hadn't wasted time dressing, and was barefoot, in a white gown, with her dark hair loose and tousled.

_Maker's breath but she's beautiful. No wonder Teagan cherishes her. What man wouldn't?_

_Stop it, you fool! No time for that!_

"Alistair," she greeted in a whisper, keeping her voice down so as not to wake the household. Her eyes lit on Duncan. "Oh my, look at him. He's exhausted." She reached for the sleeping lad.

Alistair handed Duncan to her. Duncan's arms went around her neck, he laid his head on her shoulder, and within seconds he was asleep again.

"The poor darling," she cooed, resting her cheek on his cornsilk hair and cuddling him as if he were her own son. The sight gave Alistair the confidence he needed to make his request.

"I need your promise, dear friend. I'm asking a lot of you but I desperately need your help."

She noted his agitated countenance. "You have it, whatever you ask. What's going on?

"I need you to take care of Duncan. I'm going into Orlais—"

"Of course I'll take care of him. What a silly worrier you are." Her relief lasted but a moment when he continued.

"—and I may not return. Winter, please, if anything happens to me, promise you'll raise him and care for him. There is no one else I trust."

"Alistair, what is going on?" she repeated. "_Why_ would you not return? You're starting to frighten me, and you well know I don't scare easily."

"I've no time to explain. Things are dire in Val Royeaux and I have to get there quickly. Please, I need to hear your promise before I go."

"You're going to help the empress? Is there trouble?"

"I'm going to fight _against_ the empress. Forgive me, but I have no more time for explanations."

"I promise I'll take care of him like he's my own son. _Until you return_."

He exhaled, ridding himself of his immediate anxiety. "Thank you. I can go with a clear head knowing he's in your hands."

"I wish I could go with you and help, but… the children…"

"You're needed here. Don't worry for me. I must leave now, before they realize I'm coming. Wish me luck?" He tried to give her a reassuring smile. She wasn't fooled.

"You come back alive, Alistair. I mean it. No excuses."

Her imperious demand brought a genuine smile to his face, calling to mind her early days as a warden. "I always liked you best when you were bossy." Without thinking, he cupped her chin and kissed her lightly on the lips. He excused himself with, "A little extra luck never hurt."

She was unfazed. "Be careful, Alistair. Please."

Before she could say anything more he dashed off into the night, full of purpose and deadly intent. He jumped on his horse and rode northwest. He went alone, without guards or helpers.

* * *

Part 3 - …It Was the Worst of Times

Noon came and went, and Teagan hadn't returned. It wasn't the first time the folks of Redcliffe had delayed him, wanting to talk to him directly about their concerns. He met mostly with nobles, the revered mother, and the mayor, but if the townsfolk saw him about, they stopped him. He would always be remembered as the one nobleman who risked his life to save their town from the walking dead monsters years earlier. He was more than their arl; he was their hero.

As the afternoon wore on, I started to grow uneasy. He'd never been this late, and if he saw he would be much delayed he would have sent word, wouldn't he? Teagan's first priority was his family—he made that clear to everyone. He wouldn't let me worry if it could be helped.

Why was I worried anyway? Because he was three or four hours late? Or was it five? I was being doltish, I told myself.

My anxiety wasn't lost on Perth. "My Lady, would you have me go toward Redcliffe and see that all is well?"

"No, Ser Perth, but thank you for your offer. I'm sure everything is fine. He's just been delayed."

"As you wish," Perth answered.

"Ser Perth, what have you heard about bandits along the road to Redcliffe?"

"Not much, my Lady. Small bands, unskilled and ill-equipped. They could rob civilians, but not a large, armed party such as the arl's. There's no need for alarm on that account."

Night fell without word or sign from Teagan. Now I _was_ getting worried. Maybe the bandits had become organized. Maybe there was a larger camp of the brutes in the hilly country waiting to ambush a nobleman on a little-traveled stretch of highway.

_Enough of this nonsense! If he's not home by morning, he'll probably be leaving Redcliffe a day later than usual. Nothing to get upset over._

I slept fitfully, waking over and over and reaching across his side of the bed. It was empty. Did I expect him to travel the roads at night? No one in their right mind would do so.

The following day, I waited for noon with an anxious heart. He'd get a proper talking-to from me for making me worry! But he didn't arrive by noon. There was no messenger from Redcliffe to deliver word that my husband was staying longer for business. Not a word, not a sighting of a traveler coming from the south.

Perth saw my nervous pacing and again offered to ride toward Redcliffe. Again, I refused his offer. I felt foolish, worrying so, and would feel a lot more foolish when Teagan returned home with a perfectly logical explanation for his lateness.

Another night passed. I kept a brave face on for the boys. Jaden was quieter than normal, but Duncan was his usual chattery-happy self. He kept me occupied and quieted my fears. We spent the third day of Teagan's absence having a picnic by the lake—the last one we'd be able to hold before the cold weather arrived and kept us indoors. After we ate, Duncan wanted to practice riding. A stableboy saddled the mare and lifted him onto the horse's back.

The boy had improved greatly. His balance was better and he'd learned how to make the horse turn, stop, and go on command and with the reins. "You've been practicing," I commented. "Did your papa get a riding teacher?"

"Papa taught me," he answered proudly. "Papa doesn't need a teacher." I laughed at our little miscommunication. Still, he answered my question. No riding teacher. Alistair had taken time to teach the boy himself. I don't know where he _found_ the time, but when it came to Duncan, he put his son first and other things just had to wait.

When midafternoon came, I could stand the wait no longer. I approached Perth, embarrassed at my fears, which I knew would soon be proven groundless, and asked him to ride to Redcliffe. He took off immediately. Until he returned, with Teagan and his guards or with word of his delay, I had to wait. The damned waiting was the worst of it.

We had dinner. Duncan ate heartily, reminding me again of his father and having inherited Alistair's appetite. Jaden ate little. I pushed my food around my plate and ate nothing.

At length, I heard the sound of a horse. Two horses. Only two horses, of the nine total that left the stable. I asked Jaden to take Duncan to his room and I went outside. It wasn't yet fully dark, but dark enough to prevent me from clearly making out the riders' faces.

When the horses got closer, I saw there was only a single rider. The other horse carried a burden over its back. Was that… Was it Perth? The armor looked like his. Heavy, broad armor. Teagan's was light armor. The rider wasn't Teagan.

I had all the porch lanterns lit so I could see more clearly when the horseman approached. Perth must have found out why Teagan was delayed and had come back to tell me.

_So soon? It's an eight-hour ride round trip to Redcliffe and back. He hasn't been gone long enough to reach Redcliffe._

It _was_ Perth. His face was set in a grim mask. He rode up to the porch and stopped, leaving the other horse a short distance behind.

My words came out in a weak whisper. "What did you find, Ser Perth? Where is my husband?"

I could feel the blood pounding, rushing past my ears, hearing and feeling my pulse with a heavy, dreadful beat. Before he spoke the words, I felt them in the pit of my stomach.

"My Lady, forgive me. There was nothing I could do. I was too late," he said.

The truth hit me like a lightning bolt. The burden laid across the horse's back was my husband's body. Teagan was dead.

* * *

Perth found the bodies halfway between Redcliffe and Rainesfere. The guards and knights had been burned, their corpses blackened beyond recognition. He could tell by their armor if it were a guard or a knight, but couldn't identify any of them. It was impossible to see if they'd sustained other injuries, if they were dead before they were burned or, Maker help them, if they'd been burned alive.

The arl lay a short distance from the others, in a wide pool of blood. His blood. His body hadn't been burned. It looked like he'd been ripped nearly in half, but what kind of beast could rend a man so? Nothing he knew of. He _did_ know this wasn't done by a man, or even a whole company of bandits. The wound to the arl's abdomen wasn't clean-edged like one made by a sword or axe. It was jagged, as though it were made by foot-long teeth crushing and tearing through his leather armor and flesh effortlessly. This injury was made by some kind of creature. A very large one.

The horses they'd been riding were dead too. Burned like the guards and knights. He looked about for something to cover the bodies, but his horse had only two blankets. He used one to wrap the arl's body so it wouldn't fall apart on the ride back to the manor. The second he used to drape over he corpse. He had to pry his sword from his hand. Arl Teagan had died fighting.

He rode slowly, fearful the body would break in two in the jostling. The news he was bringing the arlessa was bad enough without the added horror of seeing her husband's body in such a state. It was dark when he approached the house. The arlessa was on the front porch waiting for him.

"Maker, tell me what to say to her," he prayed under his breath.

* * *

I felt sick. Faint. But I wasn't lucky enough to faint and escape the pain that filled me as water fills a cup to overflowing. Filled with pain, but also with a keening, gnawing emptiness.

I approached the horse slowly, with jerky steps, forcing myself to go forward when I wanted to turn and run, far enough and fast enough to make time go backwards, three days back, and stop him from leaving the house.

My thoughts were as jerky as my movements. Disjointed thoughts. Where were the boys? Were they sleeping? I didn't want them to know…

_Teagan is dead_

…about this yet. More than that, I didn't want them to see the blanket covering his body, soaked with red. Stained with his life's blood.

Memories and words and laughter and arguments melded together into a blur that couldn't drown out the terrible truth…

_Teagan is dead_

…and numbing shock of loss. I'd lost both my parents in a single night, but what I felt then couldn't compare to this aching grief.

Tentatively, I touched the blanket. Why? Would it make me feel closer to my beloved, who had left this wretched world with its cruelty and wickedness and violence? My gaze fell upon a pale hand that hung lifeless below the edge of the blanket. Dried blood traced a dark path on his skin.

"His men?" I asked Perth. My eyes were riveted on the bloody hand.

"All were lost, my Lady."

"All were lost," I repeated. "Bandits?"

"No, my Lady."

Jaden came out of the house, roused from sleep. How? We'd been quiet. Had he not been asleep after all?

I turned to him and embraced him. "Darling, go back inside. We'll talk in the morning."

"Papa, no," he whispered, his tragic expression mirroring my own. "You should have taken me with you, Papa."

"Don't say that! I couldn't bear to lose you both," I said. Tears were beginning to stream down my cheeks. I battled for control of myself, not wanting to fall apart in front of him.

"Lusacan," he whispered.

I'd never heard of a "Lusacan". Was it a person? A weapon? Before I could ask him what he meant by it, he raised his face to the sky and roared with all his strength. "LUSACAN!" The strange word was followed by a string of words in an unfamiliar tongue.

It was Jaden's voice, but multiple times stronger. Forceful in a way no child could speak. Not the cry of a boy, but the shout of a man, a battle cry or a thundering threat one would bellow to an enemy. I knew the type of cry, but not the words themselves.

Was he hysterical? It appeared not. He looked more composed than I felt, and it was worrisome. This was too much for a child to handle. I needed to get him inside, away from his father's body, before he ran past me and saw what I couldn't bring myself to look at. I'd seen thousands of corpses in every condition, but I would not let my last memory of Teagan be the sight of his broken, tortured body.

The sobs broke free and I sunk to my knees, face in my hands. I fought against the hysteria that teased along the edges of my sanity. "Teagan," I groaned through the tears. "No… No… No."

My son put his arms around me and we mourned together. Jaden had no tears. He grieved as I did, but didn't cry. He remained strong in my time of absolute weakness and vulnerability.

Perth led the horse away from the house. There would have to be arrangements made soon. Not now. I couldn't think. I couldn't accept that Teagan was gone.

Eamon! He could not learn of this from strangers' gossip. While I still had my wits about me, I called for the steward and instructed him to dispatch a messenger to Denerim at first light. I wrote a note with little detail other than Teagan had perished in an accident. That was enough.

"Mum, you should go lie down," Jaden said. "Papa told me to take care of you."

I regained enough composure to ask, "Darling, what was that word you said? What is Lusacan?"

His eyes grew distant. "It's a name. It's… Night." He didn't elaborate, and I got the impression he didn't know any more than that.

At my son's gentle urging, I went to bed. He offered to sit with me but I sent him to his room so I could be alone, and when he was gone I released the tears, sobs, groans and anguish and rage and sorrow. It would be long before my emotions were healed, if one ever truly heals from the death of a spouse. For now, with the news too fresh and the grief so deep, all I could do was cry.

I slept at last, physically and emotionally wrung out. When I woke at midmorning, Duncan had come to my suite and crawled into my bed. He snuggled close to me with an arm around my neck and his head against my shoulder. His presence, innocence, and warmth were comforting.

"I'm scared, Aunt Winter," he whimpered. I hadn't realized he was awake and crying.

"Scared? What are you afraid of, dearest?"

"Dragons. Jaden told me a dragon killed his papa."

"Shh, there are no dragons here. Jaden and I will keep you safe," I said.

_Where did Jaden get such a wild idea? Nothing was said about a dragon…_

_Morrigan's ritual. Her stories. They were true. My son _did_ have the soul of an old god, and in their life, they were dragons._

My mind was racing. Dragons. A high dragon—the only creature I knew besides an ogre that was large and strong enough to tear an adult apart. I'd killed a high dragon at the temple south of Haven. But there were eggs. Maybe hundreds of them. We hadn't been looking for dragon eggs, only the cursed ashes. We carelessly overlooked the eggs and let them hatch. Haven, not so far from Redcliffe and Rainesfere.

Flemeth took the form of a high dragon too. We'd killed her daughter. Was she the "Lusacan" that Jaden spoke of? I'd killed her once in her dragon form, but from what Morrigan said, that wasn't her _true_ dragon form in all its power. It was a dim shadow of what she could become.

Anger and grief competed in me. Both were powerful emotions, but grief was debilitating, whereas anger was my motivator. I would find out who or what killed my husband, and they, or it, would forfeit their lives for this murder.

* * *

In her dingy hut in the swamp, Flemeth heard her name from many miles away. Her true name, followed by a threat. She recognized Urthemiel's voice, a sound she'd not heard in many years, before he became corrupted by darkspawn filth. She had gotten his attention.

_Good,_ she thought. _He is becoming aware of who he truly is. Soon, in another twenty years or so, he'll learn his purpose. _Our_ purpose.  
_

The death of Razikale—"Morrigan" as they knew him—was a negligible loss. His powers were weak and his loyalty questionable. In killing him, they had unwittingly saved the world from the sixth blight.

The final blight, led by the Lusacan herself, the Dragon of Night, was still to come. By then, there would be no Grey Wardens to get in her way. She would see to that personally.


	27. The Aftermath

The Aftermath

Part 1 – The Truth Will Set You Free… Or It just Might Kill You

* * *

"Of all people, how could you oppose me, Marc?" Celine demanded. "I trusted you. My uncle relied on your counsel. Yet you defy me and come to take my throne? I think not."

"Celine, I would not—"

"_Empress_," she corrected him. "You have forfeited your right to call me by name, Duke."

"As I was saying, _Celine_, I would not have opposed you if you had Orlais' interests at heart instead of your personal goals. You've lied to the people and to your court. Your whorish behavior has brought shame on your dynasty, making our great empire the subject of ridicule among the other nations—allies and enemies alike. In this city, where the Divine resides, you dare to mock and deny the Maker, and you encourage others to follow your example.

"You've deceived your allies, and I know of your plan to invade Ferelden even though you are legally wed to her king. I cannot allow your duplicity to continue. Orlais needs a ruler who will act in her best interest, not a selfish child who looks only to her personal desires and lascivious appetites."

"You were not so reluctant to share my bed yourself," she purred, sliding her hand down her thigh in a gesture that appeared tantalizing. "What would your wife say if she knew about us?"

"She knows, and she's forgiven my past weakness. Unlike you, she is a woman of character."

Celine was trained as a bard in her youth, and she kept a dagger hidden beneath her skirt. A ruler couldn't afford to be careless. If Duke Zacherie thought to depose her, he was mistaken. He would die for his treason.

"I wouldn't do that," a female voice said, so close to her ear she could feel the hot breath. The point of a blade pressed against her jugular vein; only a thin layer of delicate flesh between life and death. A hand gripped hers tightly, preventing her from reaching her dagger, then twisted Celine's arm behind her back, jerking upward in a quick and efficient move, dislocating her shoulder. Ignoring the empress' shriek of pain, the shadowy assailant retrieved the dagger from beneath Celine's skirt and tucked it into her own belt. With Celine disarmed and posing no danger, the assailant released her. Celine turned to see Duke Marc's accomplice.

"_You_," she said, surprised and hurt. "Bard-master! I trusted you, you treacherous bitch! I shared all my secrets with you because I respected you. How could you turn on me so quickly?"

"As a bard, you should have known better than to trust _anyone_ with your secrets. You knew who and what I was. You should have been suspicious of me instead of blindly trusting. Your naïveté worked to my advantage, did it not?"

Celine hissed, "You earned your title well. A spy, a killer, a deceiver, a thief, a traitor… And you dare look down on me?" Her right arm hung limply, painfully, from the shoulder. She couldn't fight them. Not with her injury. But she wasn't without an alternative. Her body convulsed and she dropped to her knees, supporting herself with one arm. The injured shoulder righted itself, and her appearance began to change rapidly before their eyes. When she stood again, she wasn't Celine. She was a desire demon.

"As I suspected," the duke said. He and his accomplice attacked the demon before it had the chance to entice them with seductive words. Desire demons were most powerful when they had a willing victim. These two weren't taken in by her lewd appearance or her false promises of having their fondest wishes fulfilled. She had nothing to offer them. Duke Marc had no prior experience with demons, but his accomplice did. She slashed at the creature, dodging most of weak the fire spells, until she could drive her blade through its heart. It let out a long scream, its head fell back, and it rose off the floor before falling back down with a thump. In death, it transformed back into Celine.

"Sad," Duke Zacherie remarked, without any real sadness. "She was a troubled child; wild in a sense that had a certain appeal to a foolish man like I once was. But I was not aware of when she became possessed. I only assumed she had given in to demons when her actions became too outrageous to ignore."

"The blood mage," the accomplice said. "She likely caused Celine's possession so she could more easily control her."

"Where is the mage? Has she fled the country?"

"She and her lover tried to cross the border but I arranged to have templars waiting for them. They're being transported to the Circle in Starkhaven."

"Excellent work. You've earned your place in my court."

"I will… consider it," she said. "There are other matters of importance that require my attention, your Imperial Majesty."

Marc liked the sound of it. A touch pretentious, perhaps, but what of it? Once the rest of the former empress' supporters were rounded up and killed, the title would be his. _After_ he dealt with King Alistair, that is.

* * *

Alistair rode into Orlais to the north of the Imperial Highway, keeping to the brush and shadows as much as possible. A few miles into the country, a group of assassins lay in wait for him. It wasn't the best decision to have come alone without his escort of guards, but there was nothing to do about it now. He'd have to fight his way through.

He heard the sound of horses behind him. _Damn it, I'm surrounded,_ he thought. _Stupid move, Alistair. Should have seen this coming._

Instead of attacking him, the horses passed him and the soldiers engaged the assassins. He didn't realize the horsemen were some of the same guards that had escorted him out of Orlais years ago—others were replacements, but all were under Duke Marc's command to safeguard King Alistair at all costs. Alistair drew his sword to join the battle.

_Orlesian assassins are better trained than Antivans,_ he assumed. This particular group surely was. They killed two of the guards with expertly-thrown daggers. The other guards took cover and fired on the assassins with a bow and a crossbow. Alistair took a bow and quiver off a fallen guard and joined the others behind a low wall of boulders.

The assassins, thinking they would make a quick and easy kill, were unprepared for a real fight. One had a shortbow; the others had only daggers. None was anxious to engage in close combat.

"They're trapped," the senior guard said. "We can take them out from here, or we can charge them and cut them down with swords. I leave it up to you, King Alistair. How would you like to deal with this insult?"

_Insult? Is that how Orlesians viewed an assassination attempt?_ "Let's have at them with blades," Alistair answered. "Arrows are too impersonal."

"Have a care, Majesty. These fellows poison their blades."

"Right, I'm aware of their cowardly techniques," Alistair answered. He took his shield in his left hand, sword in his right. "If you have a shield, this is a good time to use it. Let's go."

"As you wish, but you are not to lead, Sire. Duke Zacherie's orders." Alistair was grateful to the duke but he felt a tickle of resentment at being ordered about by a lesser nobleman.

_This isn't my country and these aren't my men, _he reminded himself. _Can't blame them for following orders when those orders are for my protection._

Both guards were primarily sword-and-shield warriors, with little training in archery. This was the kind of fighting they knew best, and they defended the gutsy foreign king per the duke's commands. Of the four remaining assassins, three of them threw a hail of daggers dipped in lethal poison, all of which were deflected by the shields. The fourth assassin ineffectively used his shortbow. Its range was too short and the arrows were cheaply made. One came close to doing harm when it stuck in a guard's shield, but before he could reload another arrow, the guard was upon him and struck him down with a shield-bash to the head followed by a sword thrust to the chest.

Alistair went for the group's leader. The man was frantically issuing orders or instructions—he couldn't make out the Orlesian jabber—so Alistair figured this fellow was in charge. He warded off a dagger with his shield and shoved his sword into the man's shoulder, taking out his ability to fight. With the other three assassins killed, the senior guard pointed his sword at the leader's throat and questioned him in Orlesian.

Alistair waited for an interpretation. The entire conversation was four sentences long, then the guard ran his sword into the man's throat and killed him. He spat on the corpse—an Orlesian habit of showing disdain for an enemy. _Rather pointless,_ Alistair thought, _when the man's already dead._

"They were hired by a member of the empress' court," the guard explained. "A powerful noble and a chevalier, well-respected among the people. We should proceed to Val Royeaux as quickly as possible, but I suggest we stay off the main highways and try to remain undetected as long as we can."

"My thoughts exactly," Alistair agreed. He looked forward to meeting this chevalier. He hadn't had a good opponent in a long time. The assassins didn't meet the standard of "good" fighters. His most recent battle was against mindless darkspawn. Before that, his last human opponent with any battle skill had been Loghain. A duel between two warriors was far more satisfying.

The ride to Val Royeaux was slow and it vexed Alistair. His backside was sore from too many days in the saddle. The paths off the highway were made up of small, loose stones, making it necessary to keep his eyes on the route so his horse wouldn't misstep and cause them to fall.

They went west until they came to a place where two rivers met, then north, and finally east toward the capital city. _Whoever designed the route was an idiot,_ he thought. Nothing a couple of well-placed bridges couldn't fix, but they were either too dumb or too afraid of retaliatory invasion to make the road to Val Royeaux easier to travel. For the most part, Orlesians were an arrogant bunch, and a strange race with peculiar customs. The populace wore masks or half-masks with their family or clan crest, and the nobles and chevaliers painted their faces like clownish harlots. What kind of people did that?

The city came into view, and from a distance it looked like nothing was amiss. As they neared it, however, they saw bodies of palace guards, soldiers, nobles, and civilians scattered about. Not as many as one would expect in a full-scale revolution. The loss of civilians was regrettable, but they were armed and evidently took part in the fight, so their deaths were on their own heads.

"Chevaliers," the senior guard whispered, signaling the group to halt and stay in the shadows. "Until we know if they're on our side or part of the empress' army, let's not engage them."

_That's a no-brainer if I ever heard one,_ Alistair thought. His little band of three was outnumbered, and the chevaliers had superior weapons and armor _and_ trained war horses. Each mounted fighter posed a double threat. While they watched, an argument broke out among the fighters. The exchange led to threats and posturing, and finally to blows. From what the group could ascertain, roughly half the chevaliers were on Celine's side and the other half opposed her.

"Wouldn't it be nice if they killed each other off? It would save us the trouble," one guard said.

"You say that like we really have a chance against them," Alistair answered.

Luck or karma or the Maker was on their side. The chevaliers were in the square below the palace. From above them, someone—or a number of 'someones'—threw daggers with the precision of a bard. Alistair thought, _This is Orlais, after all—home of the bards. No others I've seen can wield a short blade with that kind of expertise._

One of the horsemen saw his fellows falling. Unable to defend against an enemy he couldn't see, he guided his horse into a covered alcove where the blades couldn't reach him. There he stayed until the rest of the chevaliers lay dead and their horses lightly injured and scattered.

"It's one chevalier alone against the three of us," Alistair said. "How hard can it be to kill one man?"

"He's not a normal man," the senior said. "A chevalier is worth five of us."

"Five of _you_, maybe. I'm not going to sit here and wait for him to leave. I need to get in the palace and see what's happening." Alistair left the guards behind and rode toward the chevalier.

He was spotted right away, and the Orlesian warrior walked his horse out of the alcove. Even the horse had a smart-ass attitude, high-stepping and rearing. The chevalier said, "What is this? If it isn't the false emperor himself. It will be a pleasure killing you."

"Awfully confident, are you?" Alistair answered. He locked glares with the chevalier, inwardly ridiculing the man for his painted face, like that of a tramp from the Pearl. Neither man was going to back down. That was what Alistair was hoping for. Let the egotistical fop try his luck.

"Confidence I do not need. I am a _chevalier_!" With his lame war cry echoing in the deserted streets, the chevalier charged at him with his razor-edged sword drawn.

Alistair let him get closer before drawing his own sword. At the warrior's approach, Alistair feigned left. The chevalier took the bait and followed his move, allowing Alistair to pull to the right just in time to swing his blade at the spot between the warrior's helmet and his armor. The warhorse continued to run with its headless rider lolling about, spraying blood like a shower, painting Alistair's gauntlets and armor red, and spattering his face.

"Chevalier, eh? I'm templar and Grey Warden, you pompous arse." The two guards caught up to him, surprised and pleased by his quick victory. "I'm off to the palace, lads. Come or stay behind, whatever your orders dictate."

"Speet on heem," the junior guard said. "Eet ees tradeetion."

"Not _my_ tradition. And I have no desire to chase after the headless horseman. But by all means, feel free to follow him and spit all you like." The guards understood his logic and left the corpse as it was—wherever it was—without the customary spitting.

The palace was a bloody mess. This was where the main battles of the revolution took place. Celine's court lay dead—all of the ones he recognized from years ago, and a few new faces. Or they _might_ have been new ones. Hard to tell with all the gore. He was specifically looking for Duke Marc. Again, the blood and injuries made identification difficult, but he was fairly sure the duke wasn't among the dead in the throne room.

"King Alistair? What are you doing here?"

Alistair recognized the voice as the duke's. He turned to see him, and another familiar person, entering the room from the opposite side by the living quarters. "Leliana," he said, "I would say I'm surprised to see you here, but I'm actually not. I assume it was you throwing those daggers at the chevaliers?"

"Not me, but my bards. Under my orders."

He still didn't care for the woman, but she'd done him a good turn and the least he could do was show some gratitude. "Thanks for that. I wasn't looking forward to taking on that many chevaliers. And their horses."

She giggled—as childlike and frivolous a person as ever despite her admirable skills. "You wouldn't have stood a chance against that many. That's why I had them killed, even the ones who said they were against Celine. With nobles, you never know…"

The duke interrupted their conversation. "I expressly advised you to stay away from Val Royeaux until the takeover was complete, Majesty. You're a hard-headed man."

Alistair shrugged. "I'm Fereldan. What can I say?"

"Very well. Now that you're here, let's discuss terms."

"Terms? What terms? Isn't there already a treaty in effect?"

"Ah, how thoughtless of me! I regret to inform you of the death of your wife, the former Empress Celine. As Orlais lacked a suitable replacement, I've taken it upon myself to assume the throne."

"Convenient for you," Alistair said. "I suppose you expect thanks for killing Celine. I'm not one to revel in death, especially a woman's death. I'd planned to divorce her, but this will have to do."

"Indeed? Then her death is no loss to anyone. You should be made aware of her misdeeds."

"If I must hear them…"

"You must, for your peace of mind. Indulge me a while, Majesty, and I'll answer all the questions I can."

Leliana begged leave before the two rulers began their discussion. "Imperial Majesty, by your leave, I want to go through the palace and its grounds, make sure there are no more enemies about, and then return to my post. The Divine is expecting my report."

"Granted," the new emperor said. "Your help was invaluable. It won't be forgotten." Leliana bowed to the emperor, then to Alistair, before slipping silently from the room.

Over the next hour, Alistair learned in detail what had made Celine progress from a mildly promiscuous teen into a raging tramp. A demon. He should have guessed it. As he suspected, her creepy mage was a blood mage. The apostate had summoned a desire demon along with other demons and abominations to control the court and the empress.

The former empress had no intention of honoring the treaty she'd made. It was her belief that the borders of her empire should extend to the ends of the continent, which would encompass Ferelden. Plans had been discovered in her belongings for an organized invasion to commence in the autumn of the coming year, beginning with Alistair's assassination.

_And they say romance is dead._

Additionally, he learned (to his relief and his displeasure) he _had_ been drugged the night Duncan was conceived. His first worry was that the drug might somehow affect his son in the future, but Marc assured him that what he'd overheard suggested nothing of the kind. Both Celine and the mage took precautions to insure his health. He was to be the heir to the Orlesian throne, and was therefore valuable.

"The mage," Alistair said. "Still running loose, I presume."

"She and her mentor have been captured and are on their way to the Starkhaven Circle." Alistair was relieved to hear this news. Apostates couldn't be trusted.

His next question was regarding something almost as worrisome. "Exactly what affect did the potion have, other than to get me to commit an act I found loathsome?"

"You refer to your aggression, I take it? Acting out of character in a frenzy of—"

"Enough! Don't remind me. I'd rather never think on it again."

"Let me set your mind at ease, Alistair. None of your actions that night were of your own volition. You may have answered Celine's summons and come to Val Royeaux with the intent to father an heir, but she knew you didn't want anything to do with her. Celine's ego had grown so large, and her heart so small, that she thought drugging you was the only way to get what she wanted from you. What occurred—and I take it from your expression that it was unpleasant—wasn't your fault. But for all the wrongs she did, you have your heir, do you not?"

"I do, and I consider him fully Fereldan."

"That's another matter we must discuss."

They struck a new treaty. In exchange for Alistair renouncing all claim to the Orlesian throne, and acting on behalf of his son, renouncing Duncan's claim to it as well, there would be peace between their countries. Alistair had a stipulation of his own. The Orlesian city of Jader was well inside Ferelden's northwest boundary, east of the Frostback Mountains. Orlais was to surrender claims to the city and it would become part of Ferelden. The emperor considered it, and agreed to the king's terms. Jader was too distant from the rest of the country to afford it adequate protection. It worked in both countries' favor to relinquish the city to Ferelden.

When their negotiations were complete, the emperor waved an arm at the room. "I would like to offer you my hospitality, Majesty, but the palace is in a mess. My home is not far, if you would do me the honor of staying there until you return to Ferelden."

Alistair would have preferred to leave for home but he was fatigued to the point of collapsing. He accepted the emperor's offer and remained in the grand manor for a few days, until he was well rested and well fed enough to make the return trip home. He longed to see Duncan again, and when he reached Denerim, to tell Eamon that a better treaty had been made with Orlais than the miserable marriage agreement. He wasn't as dumb as people thought.

The emperor's wife—a handsome, unassuming, kindhearted woman—saw to it that he was loaded down with provisions for the trip. Among the items she gave him was a goodly quantity of the one thing he liked about Orlais. They made some of the finest cheese he'd ever tasted.

Satisfied he'd accomplished all he'd intended and more, he began the trip to Rainesfere to reunite with his son, oblivious to the things that had occurred there in his absence. Because he'd ridden his horse so hard on the way to Val Royeaux, he kept a leisurely pace on the way back home, stopping to let the horse rest and graze every few hours (and to give his backside a rest as well), making camp at night, and taking twice as long as normal to reach the Ferelden border.

* * *

Part 2 – Grief and Rage

"…_Fragments of joy torn apart, a freshly drained heart that beats, disguise themselves through her…" ~ A.F.I. - "On The Arrow" (slightly modified)_

I passed the first days following Teagan's death in a mental fog, not fully aware of those around me, automatically acknowledging their sympathies and offers of help with the proper responses. They meant well, I knew. But good intentions aside, no one could do anything.

The estate steward, taking charge of details I wasn't prepared to handle, dispatched a messenger to Mayor Murdock in Redciffe informing him of the arl's death, and telling him the funeral would be held the following afternoon on the grounds of our Rainesfere estate. He added in his message the following: "The arlessa is in mourning and in no position to deal with problems in the city. Please contact me if you need assistance." He wasn't trying to undermine my authority—a burden I didn't want—he was being helpful. If there was something above his station, he would bring it to me. Otherwise, he ran interference, as it were, between me and the arling.

Eamon responded right away to my message. He was unable to come to Rainesfere because the king was away, but he would visit as soon as he could. Like the rest of us, he was heartbroken over Teagan's death. I found it curious, though, that he included with his message an official document—the deed to his Denerim estate, with my name listed as the owner and Jaden as secondary owner. Sure, he wasn't using it much if at all, but it was an unusually generous gift and it came at a strange time.

The stable hands built a funeral pyre the morning after Teagan's body was returned to the estate. The next afternoon, two days after he'd been found and probably four days after his death by Perth's estimation, when the citizens of the arling came to pay their last respects to their beloved arl, Teagan's silk-draped body was burned on the pyre. I stood with the two boys, holding their hands, watching the flames without really seeing them. I'd already wept until I had no tears left to give. My mind was elsewhere. I wore the traditional black widow's clothing for the funeral, but I longed to have it done with and wear my armor again. One year in black dresses? Not for me.

Helplessness was not a condition to which I would succumb. Despair was something I'd dealt with in Starkhaven. I refused to allow it to master me. I couldn't very well go out hunting a dragon, but I couldn't sit about and mourn for the coming year either. In short, I had reverted to the person I was the day I arrived in Ferelden—angry, cold, and reckless. My anger was directed as much toward the uncaring Maker as it was the dragon that killed Teagan.

With the boys, though, I put on a good front. Jaden had just lost his papa. I couldn't be so selfish as to allow my feelings to blind me to his pain. For a child, he accepted the loss with a maturity I should have come to expect. He'd foreseen something—not the details of the events, but he'd had a premonition of disaster when Teagan left for Redcliffe. From now on, I would pay more heed to his warnings, vague as they might be. And with good reason.

Duncan was still frightened of dragons. More than that, he was afraid a dragon would kill his papa as it had killed Jaden's—a possibility I hadn't considered, but it worried me as well. Each night he asked if he could sleep in my suite. I found it too hard to sleep in the room I'd shared with Teagan. The bed where we'd made love, his most prized belongings, and his clothing were in there, and the room still held his scent. The memories were too painful to bear. I took another suite near the boys' room—one with two beds. We slept there with the boys in one bed and me in the other. At least, that's how each night _began_. I usually woke with two sleeping companions, and I rather liked having the boys near me.

A week after Teagan's death, Aiden came to visit. He came alone, bringing Alfstanna's sympathies and an apology for not coming because her kids kept her too occupied to be of any help. I had a hunch she wasn't ready to teach her youngsters about death, and didn't blame her. Aiden stayed for a couple of days, talking to me at times, and hanging around the boys when I needed to be alone. His presence was a small comfort, but at this time, _any_ comfort was welcome.

Bryant also came to call and pay his respects, bringing well wishes from Garavel and the others. He stood beside the remnants of the funeral pyre and spoke a heartfelt prayer, commending my husband to the Maker's hands. I said nothing, but it seemed to me that if this Maker cared in the first place, Teagan would still be alive. Still, Bryant's meant well, and his friendship was as steadfast as his faith.

The day of the funeral, I combed through the library for tomes on the old gods. Teagan had one volume of particular interest. It listed the names of all seven old gods, and the last name on the list was Lusacan—the very word Jaden had said when he saw Teagan's body. He knew, without fully comprehending his knowledge, that Lusacan had killed Teagan. _Flemeth_ killed him.

Had Lusacan, in her dragon form, returned for that purpose only? It seemed unlikely, given the things Morrigan told me about how they had to keep themselves hidden from darkspawn. None of this made sense. Why would this old god risk revealing its location merely to kill a handful of men who posed no threat to it? There had to be more to this attack.

Then the pieces came together. Flemeth, as Lusacan, showed herself to send a message to Jaden—more accurately, to Urthemiel. Whether it was a call for my son to prepare himself for action in the near future, or revenge for our killing Morrigan—the sixth old god, Razikale—the attack _was_ a means of communication. A particularly brutal, unforgivable one.

* * *

Five days after he left Val Royeaux, Alistair crossed the border into Ferelden. He had no desire to return to Orlais, and no reason to do so. The sight and smell of his home gladdened his heart. The border guards bowed to him and he nodded in response.

When they thought he was out of earshot, they continued their conversation. "They're going to have to appoint a new arl. The arlessa isn't Fereldan and I'm not sure the people will accept her even if she _were_ of a mind to rule the arling, you know, with her husband being dead and all."

Alistair stopped. He turned his horse around and approached the guards. "Who are you talking about? Which arl? Who's dead?"

"Sire, beg pardon for speaking out of turn. I assumed you had heard—"

"Just say what you have to say, man! What's this about an arl?"

"The arl of Redcliffe, Sire. He was killed less than a fortnight ago. Some say he and his party were attacked by a dragon."

Alistair had trouble absorbing the impact of such news in a single jolt. Teagan? Dead? By a dragon of all things? Could they have been mistaken? They assured him it was no mistake—the arl of Redcliffe was dead; his funeral was held at his Rainesfere estate. The entire country knew of it by now.

_What of Duncan?_ He'd left his son at the Rainesfere manor. What of the rest of them? Dragons weren't selective; they killed everyone in their path. _ Maker, don't let me lose my whole family!_

He dug his heels into his horse's flanks so hard the animal reared. Alistair kept a tight hold on the horse, urging him to a gallop. He flew along the ground, closing the distance between the border and Rainesfere as quickly as possible, but not quickly enough to keep him from thinking of all sorts of disastrous possibilities. By the time he passed Orzammar he'd worried himself ill with the fear that something might have happened to his son, or to Winter and her son. Grief over Teagan's death would catch up with him; his priority was to see to Duncan.

It was a day and a half of hard riding. His horse became overtired, then sick from the nonstop running. Alistair had to stop in a small village and trade his horse for a fresh one, and damn near ran that one to death as well before Rainesfere came into view. Everywhere he looked, houses and stores were draped with black cloth, ribbons, and wreaths—a bannorn in mourning.

The manor, from a distance, looked like it had been painted black. As he neared it he saw the lower floor windows had been draped in black cloth, the front porch littered with wreaths and handmade symbols of mourning from the arling's citizens. Even small statues of Andraste had been painted or draped in black.

_Bloody depressing. Isn't the family suffering enough without the constant reminders of their loss?_

He slid off the horse before it came to a full stop, stumbling in the process. He was so anxious to see that Duncan was unharmed he forgot he was covered in dried blood from his one-blow fight with the chevalier.

The steward—Lyle or Larson or something that started with an 'L'—greeted him at the door, bowing low. The man looked like he'd aged years since Alistair last saw him, less than two weeks earlier. He'd been in Teagan's service for more than twenty-five years, since the manor was first built.

"My son," Alistair demanded, sounding harsher than he intended because of his fear for the boy's safety and well-being. "Where?"

"Upstairs with Master Jaden, your Majesty."

Alistair made for the stairs but the steward called after him, "Forgive me, Sire, but I fear the boy might be frightened by your armor… in that condition…"

"Of course," Alistair answered_. The last thing he needs is to see me covered in blood. _He released the clasps on his breastplate and removed his gauntlets and leather gloves. Better. The steward had left the room and returned with a wet cloth for the king's face. With all the dried blood on it, one might think he'd received a grievous head wound. Alistair took it gratefully, scrubbed at his face and hair. That done, he ran up the stairs.

"Papa!" Duncan cried joyfully. Alistair picked him up and held him tightly.

"Thank the Maker," Alistair breathed in relief at finding his son unharmed. "I missed you, little man."

Duncan planted a few wet kisses on his cheek before drawing back and making a face. "Papa, you need a bath. You're stinky."

Alistair laughed, too long and too loud, finally able to release the anxiety he'd carried for the past thirty-six hours. "Yes, son. That's what Orlais smells like. I'll have a bath as soon as I can." He turned his gaze on Jaden, who'd been sitting on the floor quietly observing the two. His haunted eyes tore at Alistair's heart. "Come here," he gestured to him. He shifted Duncan to one arm and lifted Jaden with the other. The boy wrapped his long arms around his neck, so much like he'd done when he was a toddler. "I'm so sorry about your papa. He was special to me, too."

"I know," Jaden whispered. "Papa is with Aunt Rowan and Cailan now. It's Mum I'm worried about. She's not… herself."

"Where is your mum?" he asked Jaden. "I want to check up on her and see if I can help her. But you understand, don't you, that it will take her some time to get back to 'herself'." He recalled how crushed he was after Ostagar, when Duncan died. He couldn't imagine how one could endure as much loss as Winter had—starting with her parents' murder and now her husband's gruesome death.

"She takes a walk by the lake every day. She said she needs alone time."

He put the boys down. "Are you fellows going to be alright for a while?"

"Sure, we've got lots of things to do," Jaden answered.

"Yeah, like telling stories about dragon hunters," Duncan chimed in.

Satisfied the boys were safe, Alistair went to look for Winter.

* * *

Jaden and Duncan were a joy, my only comfort in these difficult times, but in my gut was a growing, insistent anger with no place of release.

When I became a warden I found what I needed, even if I had the misguided notion that I wanted to die. In fighting, the deep-seated resentment found a target—a deserving target—darkspawn. Now I had nothing on which to unleash my fury. Back then, I was angry with Andraste and the whole "bride-of-the-Maker" rubbish. In this most recent adversity, the Maker himself was the target of my ire.

My fear was that I might lose control and the anger would break loose on the boys, on the servants, or on a visitor come to extend their sympathies—the latter of which had become tiresome no matter how good their intent. I wanted to be left alone, not continually reminded of what a good man I'd lost and how _they_ lost a bann, an arl, a dear friend.

Each day I set aside a couple of hours to remove myself from everyone, usually strolling along the lakeside. I needed this time to sort through my thoughts and feelings, and then to make plans for the future. On the last topic I was at a loss. I hated to leave my beloved Rainesfere, but the one who made it so special to me was gone forever. The memories tormented me. Every room, every item held significance. I was becoming overwhelmed with emotions—sorrow, loss, loneliness for the man I'd loved so dearly, but most of all, seething anger at the Maker who let this happen.

"What did I do, or what _didn't_ I do?" I muttered aloud to a Maker who had long since turned his gaze away from his creation. "Was it that Andraste nonsense again that set you off? Because I still don't believe she's in any way divine. Is that why you see fit to punish me in the most callous ways you can devise? You're too sadistic to kill me. Am I to be your toy for my entire life? You give me happiness for a while, and then you snatch it away to see how I'll react, or how much pain you can inflict on me before I turn into a blubbering lunatic. Is that your grand plan? You've picked the wrong person.

"You, Maker, couldn't even defend your own golden city against evil men, you turned your back on the world and the races you created, whether they believed in you or not, until a human woman caught your eye. What kind of Maker are you? Do you lust like a mortal man? Did you desire a mortal woman, one who was already married? Is that the story I'm supposed to believe? And do you expect me to repeat the chant of light—the most boring, repetitive, meaningless prose ever made up, and that by your alleged 'bride'? Every time I hear it in a chantry it makes my skin crawl. Not because of the words themselves, but because of the naïve fools who devote their lives to it and to you. You're a fraud."

The more I talked, the louder and harsher my voice became until I was fairly _shouting_ toward the sky at a being in which I'd lost all faith. Gesturing with my arms, picking up a stick or a rock and throwing it for emphasis, or as my futile, impotent attempt to strike back at an unfeeling, uncaring deity or idol or whatever the Maker was. Assuming he ever existed.

"Are you waiting for me to fall apart and beg forgiveness? I'll never do it. Never! How are you any better than darkspawn, or than the archdemon? At least I could kill those and be done with them. But you… you just won't go away. You toy with humanity, you watch but do nothing while elves are slaughtered or enslaved, and while dwarves retreat underground and put their trust in stone—in _stone_ of all things—and where are you in all this? Sitting in some corrupted black city sipping wine with Andraste and enjoying the show we put on for you? To the void with it all, and to the void with your adulterous prophetess, and to the void with you!"

Brawny arms grabbed me from behind. Hands gripped my wrists and pulled them against my chest, holding me fast. My back was pressed against a powerful body, hard as a wall. I began to struggle with all my strength, but to no avail. I was as trapped as I would have been locked up in the stocks, but I kept up the fight until I could hardly move my muscles.

My assailant bent his head next to mine and said in my ear, "Shh, stop struggling, Winter. It's me. I'm here."

* * *

Part 3 – Starting Over

"…_He'll say that it's nothing new, and swear this is true: 'For you, I'll swallow the ocean'…"_

_ A.F.I. – "On The Arrow"_

He was bone-weary but he couldn't rest until he'd talked with Winter. Once he saw for himself that she was alright, all things considered, he would follow his son's advice and take a bath—Maker knows he needed one; he hadn't bathed since the night before he left Denerim, over two weeks now—and then sleep until he couldn't milk any more sleep from his body.

He rounded the front corner of the house and walked toward the lake that ran behind the manor. So far he saw no sign of her. Once he reached the shore, he looked south. No one was there. Just an empty shore lined with trees in their autumn colors of red, gold, and brown. _Rainesfere is the most beautiful spot in Ferelden by far,_ he thought. _A fine place for a family, except when that family is torn apart by tragedy like this one. _The thought dampened his spirits considerably.

When he looked northward, he couldn't be sure but he thought he spotted a tiny figure in black, far up the coastline. He walked in that direction. It was quite the hike. She must have walked for an hour or more, unless he was more fatigued than he thought. His footsteps dragged in the sandy ground, tiring his legs quickly. He moved onto the solid ground and kept going.

Gradually he could make out the shape of a person, then a woman, and at last he recognized her, garbed in traditional mourning weeds. She was talking to someone, but whom? There was no one about. As he got closer, he heard her words. She was railing on the Maker. Alistair was no choirboy but some of the things she said made him cringe—if only for her soul's sake. Knowing she was speaking out of pain, he purposed not to try to defend the Maker, Andraste, or in any way upset her further.

When he saw her bend and pick up rocks, throwing them at the air as if she could hit the Maker from this distance, then sticks, then anything she could lift, he grew worried for her. She was acting out, yes, but he recalled Jaden's words: "She's not… herself." By what Alistair was seeing, she _definitely_ wasn't herself.

She was so caught up in her rant that she didn't sense his approach. Her flailing and shouting alarmed him, so he waited for the right moment and seized her wrists, pinned her against him to keep her from doing herself harm or scratching his eyes out, and spoke quietly to her when she'd struggled so much she wore herself out. It took a few repetitions to get through to her. When she realized it was he, she relaxed and it felt like she melted against him—a soft vulnerability that tugged at his heart.

"Alistair," she said, hoarse from yelling. "You're safe. Thank goodness you're safe."

He released her and she whirled about, threw her arms around his neck, and hung onto him. Before he could get a word out, she was weeping against his shoulder and trying to speak, but her words were garbled and interrupted with hard sobs. He held her, consoling her as best he could, stroking her hair and murmuring lame, useless things that he knew couldn't ease her suffering. All he could do was try, just as she had tried to soothe him after Ostagar. The fact that someone cared enough to talk to him about his loss meant a lot back then. He hoped his presence and his earnest sympathy brought her at least a tiny measure of relief from her sorrow.

When her sobbing trailed off to occasional hiccups, she tried speaking to him again. "I'm so glad you're here. I was afraid something might happen to you too, after you told me you might not return."

"I'm sorry I said that. It was stupid of me," he answered. "I never want to make you worry—"

"I can't believe he's gone," she interrupted in a mournful whisper.

"Nor can I. Tell me, what can I do for you and Jaden? Ask anything and I'll do it." Another stupid thing to say. What could he do? Raise the dead from ashes? That's what they needed, and no one could give it to them.

She didn't notice or she let it pass without comment. "You're safe. That's all I could have hoped for. I can't lose anyone else. I _have_ nothing else to lose. This Maker of yours is trying to break me, and he's damn near succeeded."

He let the Maker reference go. She was in no shape for a religious lecture. "Winter, dear, I won't pretend I know how you feel, but it breaks my heart to see you grieve. For what it's worth, know that you have people who care about you. You have Jaden, who thinks the world of you. Duncan is crazy about you, too. And you will always have me."

_Very smooth, Alistair,_ he chided himself. _Why not take it all the way to the extreme and tell this brand new widow that you still love her, and maybe when her husband's ashes are cool you two can pick up where you left off? It couldn't sound any worse than saying "you always have me". Idiot._

She backed off to see his face but she kept her arms around his neck. Not that he minded. "I'm grateful for the three of you," she said. "Truly grateful. The boys kept me sane over these past days. Now that I know you're alright, maybe I can gather my wits and stop throwing rocks at a make-believe deity." Her lips curved in a bitter half-smile.

"You're stronger than you know, dear one," he said gently. "Through all of this, you cared for two young boys and shielded them from something too difficult for them to understand. You put others before yourself, as you've done in all the time I've known you. And in spite of what you're going through, you find it in yourself to worry for me. I'm honored."

"You're talking nonsense," she scoffed.

"See? That's what I mean. You _are_ strong, Winter. You're sensible. You're the toughest woman I know, and I mean that as a compliment."

She nodded, making no comment. He felt dumber by the minute, not knowing what to say, never having had to console someone so close to him. Were there _any_ words that would help?

"We should go back to the house," she suggested. "The boys worry if I'm gone too long. Since Jaden told Duncan what happened to Teagan, he's afraid we'll all be eaten by dragons. Jaden worries that I'm losing my mind, I think."

"He _is_ worried for you," Alistair agreed. "But we'll put his fears to rest. And Duncan's." He let her slip out of his embrace but he kept hold of her hand. "Come, let's head back. Tomorrow, when we've all had a night's rest, I'm taking you and the boys back to Denerim with me."

"I don't know…"

"Why not? What's so urgent here that you can't get away?" he pressed. "That steward fellow, Lyle or Larson—"

"Leland."

"Yes, him. He can run the manor and the staff, he's been in charge of the meadery for years, and between him and the castle steward in Redcliffe, the households are well in hand. Murdock can see to Redcliffe in your absence—"

"I can't be the arlessa," she cut in. "Please, appoint someone else. The people need someone who can tend to their needs, and I just… I can't."

"Consider it done," he said. He'd hoped she wouldn't want to stay in Rainesfere or Redcliffe. "Don't give it another thought, alright?"

"Thank you, Alistair. For everything."

"I haven't done anything yet, but I do want to take care of you and Jaden," he said. At her silence, he prompted, "So you haven't answered me yet. What's keeping you here that would prevent you from coming to live in Denerim? The palace is enormous and empty. Besides, Duncan would love the company, as would I."

She thought on it. What _was_ keeping her here? Nothing. No one. "Alright. Yes. We'll come to Denerim. The change will be good for Jaden."

"And for you," he added. She didn't reply, but she didn't disagree either.

He put an arm around her shoulders and steered her toward the manor. For a while she leaned against him, drawing comfort from his strength. Eventually she pulled away and walked beside him. Tentatively, he reached for her hand. She responded by lacing her fingers through his.

_Slow down, heart. She's a new widow, remember? Widow. Wiiiiidoooooww. And strangely, the word doesn't sound as bad as 'sister'. _He suppressed a _very_ poorly-timed smile.

They walked the rest of the way hand in hand, like they'd done so many years ago in Denerim.

* * *

The boys were excited about the move to Denerim. Duncan wanted everyone to live in the palace, as Alistair had proposed, but Winter planned to live at the estate near the marketplace.

Alistair wrote a message to Murdock and asked Ser Perth to have it sent to the mayor in Redcliffe. Perth asked if he could be permitted to deliver it personally.

"If you like, of course," Alistair answered.

"Ser Perth, before you go," Winter said, "I'll need a senior knight at my home in Denerim. Do you have family here, or anything that would make you prefer to stay in Rainesfere or Redcliffe?"

"I would be honored to remain in your service, my Lady," he answered. It was settled.

"What home in Denerim? You have a home there? How come I never heard of it? When did you buy a home?" Alistair asked her as Perth walked away.

The knight rode to Redcliffe with all speed. He'd been hoping for a chance to talk to Murdock but his duties to the arlessa prevented him from going to the town. Before his fellow knights were killed, he'd heard rumors of Murdock's disdain for Arl Teagan and Arlessa Winter. Perth wasn't having it.

Murdock was in his usual place—hovering about the palace waiting for someone to answer his demands for more workmen, more trade goods, more construction, more merchants… always more of something. The mayor had big plans for making Redcliffe a city that rivaled Denerim. All he needed was a bit of cooperation. He got none from Arl Eamon or Arl Teagan; he'd surely get no help from the arl's widow. Pondering his goals and how the nobles thwarted him at every turn made him grumpier than usual.

He was sitting on a bench in the palace entrance hall when Perth approached him.

"Mayor Murdock, I have a message from the king," Perth said, handing him the note.

Murdock didn't bother to stand and look the knight in the eye. Perth was nothing more than a tin-plated errand boy. He took the note and read it over. "Hmph," he grunted, "the foreign 'arlessa' is leaving, eh? Good. What we need is a _Fereldan_ arl. One who knows the people, and who knows how to get things done."

"With respect, Ser Mayor," Perth said, "the arlessa you hold in such low esteem is the very one who risked her life and her party to save you and me and this township years ago. Have you forgotten so soon? She is in mourning for her husband, who was one of the finest gentlemen I've had the pleasure to know and serve. Should the arlessa be concerned for your personal agenda, which is hardly worthy of notice?"

Murdock answered, "Well, what a surprise. She managed to charm another stupid Fereldan man by batting those long eyelashes, did she? First Arl Teagan, then Arl Eamon, and now you. The lot of you, falling over this girl like she were Andraste herself. Maker only knows what sort of wiles or witchcraft she uses on the king." He put his hands on his thighs and pushed himself up. "As for you, Ser Perth, didn't you take vows? I know what they say about widows, and I guess you do too. Is that why you're so hot after—"

Perth was a man of impeccable courtesy and impeachable honor. The insinuations Murdock was spewing were so vile, so vindictive, and so utterly without a whit of truth, that his temper got away from him. He balled up his fist and punched the mayor right in his insolent mouth. "May the Maker forgive you, Murdock. I have no use for you." He turned on his heel and left the palace.

Murdock called after him, cursing him and threatening to have him arrested. Perth didn't slow his pace. If Murdock wanted to find him, he wouldn't be in hiding. He rode straight back to the manor to help with preparations for the move. He'd served the arls of Redcliffe his entire adult life, and it had been a privilege. Still, he couldn't see the last of this arling soon enough.

Murdock wasted no time sending guards to find Perth. Alistair, who had heard Perth's version of what happened, met them on the front lawn. They stopped and looked at each other, waiting for one of them to find the courage to address the king.

"I have a message for Murdock," Alistair said before the guards could state their purpose. "He is no longer mayor of Redcliffe. Owen the blacksmith is hereby officially appointed mayor in his stead, until and unless I decide otherwise. Go back to Murdock with this news, and if I hear of him speaking another disrespectful word toward the arlessa, my chancellor, or the late Arl Teagan, I'll have him hauled to Denerim and imprisoned for slandering nobles in my service."

The guards bowed and said a hasty, "Yes your Majesty," scrambling for their horses to get away from the manor before the ill-tempered Murdock got _them_ into trouble too.

Alistair asked, "Who's your senior?"

The eldest guard answered, "I am, Majesty."

"Tell Owen of his new station. Now, all of you, get off the arlessa's property."

With peace restored, Alistair went inside. Recalling Duncan's words that he stunk, the first order of business was a bath. On second thought, dinner _then_ a bath. He was famished.


	28. The Young and the Restless

Chapter 28 - The Young and the Restless

Part 1 – Last Wishes

* * *

Once Jaden and I were settled in at the estate, Alistair wanted us to visit the palace. We hadn't seen Eamon since before Teagan's death. When we entered the court, I hardly recognized him as the man who helped lead the armies from Redcliffe to Denerim a few years ago. He was pale and bony, his beard and hair thinning and dull, his eyes filmy. When he embraced me, he had the stench of impending death about him. It permeated his clothing and his breath reeked of it. He had little time left. Maybe a few weeks, but no more. I understood now why he deeded his estate to me. He was transferring his goods to the last blood member of the Guerrin line—Teagan's son Jaden.

Eamon called me aside for a private talk. "I'm hoping you would grant me a favor before the Maker calls me home," he said. "I've been thinking about Connor. Might you know someone who could give me news of his whereabouts? According to law I can't see him, but perhaps I could learn of his well-being?"

"I do know someone, and I'll see to it right away," I said. I would have to be quick. Eamon's frail body could slip into a coma before his demise. Fate and love had been cruel to this virtuous man. If it were within my power, I would bring him news of his son before he died. "Eamon, hold on. It may take me a week but I promise you I'll be back with news of Connor."

"Maker bless you," he said in his shaky voice. "Make haste, if you would." The implication was clear. If I dawdled or allowed anything to hinder me, I wouldn't make it back in time.

I excused myself from him and spoke with Alistair. "I have an errand to run for Eamon. May I leave Jaden with Duncan's nanny until—"

"I was rather hoping the two boys could be under her care," he interrupted. "Duncan adores him as you've seen, and Jaden is a protective 'big brother'. The nanny is excellent with Duncan, and I'm picky about who cares for and educates him."

"Perfect. Thanks," I called over my shoulder on the way out the palace.

"Wait, where are you going? Winter?"

"No time to chat. I'll see you soon."

Unsatisfied with my hurried answer, he trotted after me. "What's going on? You've just arrived and already you're leaving on a mystery errand? Please, tell me—"

I gave him a short explanation, hitting only the main points, not slowing my pace as we talked. He understood and offered to send a company of guards with me. I protested. He protested back. As king, he won out. His men would follow at a short distance to allow me the illusion of being alone, but that was as far as he would bend on the issue. It was good enough, as there was no time to debate. And truly, he was right. My route would take me across the broad plains of central Ferelden. A small company of guards might be needed, if for nothing more than for a show of force.

We parted company at the castle gates. I half-walked, half-jogged across town toward my manor, taking shortcuts through alleys and bypassing the more crowded areas—a risky move, because these days I went about in noblewoman's clothing, unarmed. I might as well have gone naked. I felt exposed without my blades and armor.

Familiarity with the city's layout brought me beside the Gnawed Noble in no time. I passed through the portcullis that separated the estate from the market. Inside the double doors, I restrained myself from running upstairs to the master suite, trying to keep some semblance of sanity in front of the servants.

My things weren't yet unpacked, but after a bit of rummaging about I found my dragonskin armor, boots, and gloves, and I changed clothing. I strapped on my two swords and tucked a couple of daggers into my belt and boots, fastened the spellward pendant around my neck and slipped the lifegiver ring on my right hand. It was a snug fit, but I wasn't able to remove my wedding band from my left hand at this time. It was too soon to cut every tie…

_No. Don't think on it. The wound is too fresh and the pain too raw. Grief will paralyze me._

I ran my fingers through my hair and gathered it into a ponytail, the way I used to wear it when I was a warden. A quick check of my pack assured me it contained what little I might need on my errand.

In my armor again, armed and ready for travel, I felt more alive than I had in a long time. This was what had been missing in my life—action, adventure, and excitement that went beyond my sedate existence in Rainesfere.

Not to be misunderstood, let me say it plainly: I was happy in my marriage. I'd loved Teagan dearly. I adored being his wife and Jaden's mother. My family was everything to me, as cliché as that sounds. I cannot say I was unfulfilled, nor did I feel I was missing out on anything back then. But in those roles—wife, mother, and arlessa in name only (I _was_ a foreigner, after all)—I forgot how exhilarating it was to be myself: Grey Warden Winter MacEwan.

Another advantage that could not be discounted: Being active again would distract me from the gnawing heartache that stayed with me day and night, haunting me like a malignant spirit no matter how I tried to ignore it. It was too recent and his death too sudden for me to keep my thoughts from straying to my loss and the inevitable pain. It would be long before I adjusted to life without Teagan. I was less practical than he'd been, but I recognized wallowing in grief would serve no purpose. Teagan would want me to keep my mourning period brief—not adhering to the customary year merely for the sake of following foolish custom. He wanted me to be happy, even if I had to find that happiness without him. What he would _not_ have wanted, however, was the seething rage I felt toward his killer, and the need for vengeance.

Everything was in order for my task. Eamon still kept a pair of horses in the stables. The steward asked if I wanted one brought round. I waved him off, telling him I'd take care of it myself. The first mount I saw would do. She was a fine, sturdy mare, not too old but too long neglected. She was about to get a good workout. In those days, saddles were simply made, functional and easy to secure. Within minutes I was off for Lake Calenhad with six of Alistair's guards in tow.

Horses were rarely seen inside the city gates. Only the king and his entourage rode to and from the palace stables, located just inside the walls at the southwestern end of the city. So you can imagine the stares and startled exclamations I got when I rode by at a canter, wishing I could break into a full gallop because the need was pressing.

As soon as I'd passed out of the city proper, I dug my heels into the mare's flanks and she leapt forward, reveling in her freedom to run as much as I enjoyed her speed and the feel of wind in my face. I turned her west toward the Lake Calenhad docks.

Cullen hadn't been too pleased with me when he learned I had conscripted Anders. I didn't know the knight-commander well, but _everyone_ knew he was strict. He was a fine templar, without a doubt, but he'd seen the evil blood mages could do, and it hardened him to their sufferings. He ran Kinloch Hold with a fair but firm hand, and his templars were some of the most disciplined fighters in Ferelden. If Connor were in the tower at Lake Calenhad, I'd have to gain Cullen's trust to see him. If Connor were still in Kirkwall, Cullen could tell me of that too—_if_ he were of a mind to share information.

The knight-commander greeted me cordially. "To what do I owe this honor, Warden? I assure you I'm not holding any darkspawn in the tower." He said it with a smile, and I hoped it was a good sign.

I didn't bother correcting him on my title. Technically, because of my taint, I would always be a Grey Warden. "I'm on a mission of mercy, Knight-Commander," I said. "A dying man's last wish, if you'd be so kind as to grant it."

"If it's within my power," Cullen answered with a hint of suspicion in his tone.

"It is, Ser Cullen. It's within your power, and as a servant of the Maker, it's your duty."

Cullen prompted, "Say on, then." I explained about Eamon and his desire to know his son was well.

Cullen let out a long breath and averted his eyes. My heart froze. Had something happened to Connor? Was he not here? I refused to let my imagination stray to the worst of all possibilities.

"You know the law, Warden," Cullen answered at last. "We don't give information about the mages to anyone outside the chantry and the Order."

It was a cheap shot but I was desperate. "I saved your life once, Cullen. If you won't do it for the chancellor, do it for me because you owe me. Is the boy here?"

"He's here," Cullen answered, to my relief. "And he's well. No trouble, obedient, intelligent. Anything else?"

"His father wants to see him," I said. "Please, Knight-Commander. He's an old man who's lost everything. Now he's dying. Can't you make this one exception?"

He'd recognized me from the start, but his memory was of me as a warden. Recent events caught up to him. "Arlessa Guerrin," he said. "Condolences on the passing of your husband. May the Maker grant him peace."

"Yes, thank you, but that's not why I'm here," I said with mounting impatience. Recalling the rumors of how he ruled with the proverbial iron fist, I cautioned myself, _Don't antagonize him_. I made a hasty but sincere apology. "Forgive me, Knight-Commander, but the chancellor's time is short. His son is all that's left of his family."

"The boy is a mage, Arlessa. The Order dictates that all mages be housed within the tower for life. There are no exceptions."

"You're still angry because I conscripted Anders, aren't you?" I snapped. _So much for patient self-control._

His smile was grim. "You did me a favor taking Anders out of here, but the fact remains that he's a mage and mages belong under supervision."

"We had Bryant!" I protested. "He supervised Anders. Everything was fine."

"Is that so? Where is Anders now?"

"He… Anders resigned from the wardens once the darkspawn threat was eradicated," I stammered. _Damn him. He's trying to make me look incompetent._

"You don't know where he is, do you?" Shame-faced, I shook my head. He continued, " I have a good deal of information on Anders. When he left Amaranthine he went to Kirkwall, laid low, started a clinic for the poor—admirable, if it weren't a cover for aiding the underground apostate network. He's been seen in the company of a woman by the name of Hawke. An apostate, and a sympathizer to Anders' cause. Hawke and Anders are possibly the two most dangerous people in Kirkwall despite Hawke's heroic acts and her 'Champion of Kirkwall' status.

"Because of Anders and his companion, I've been reassigned to the Gallows in Kirkwall to stop him before he causes an uprising that tears the city apart. These two mages—Anders and Hawke, may cause more havoc than a ship full of Qunari did." His tone changed to one of frustrated indignation. "I'm being demoted, and I'll have to serve under the most ruthless knight-commander in Thedas. Meredith runs the Gallows like a true prison."

Whoever this Meredith was, he or she sounded like a tyrant. Anders would die before he let himself be captured, I feared. He was adamant about freedom for mages when I last saw him. From what Cullen told me, he'd become a bona fide zealot.

"I'm sorry to have wasted your time, Knight-Commander Cullen, and sorrier still that a great Fereldan will die without seeing his son just because he married a woman who concealed the truth about the magic in her lineage. I'll take my leave."

Cullen, understandably incensed about his unfair demotion, made a quick decision. "Arlessa, can the chancellor travel? Could he come to the Circle?"

"I fear not, Ser. If he still lives, he would die in the journey." It seemed all of this was for naught, but I did appreciate Cullen's offer to let Eamon visit Connor. It simply wasn't possible.

"Then we'll bring the lad to him," Cullen said to my astonishment. "I'll have him brought down and we can leave for Denerim right away."

Connor was about eighteen years old. His boyish red hair had softened to dark blonde like Isolde's, and his facial features were delicate rather than bold like Eamon's. In truth, he had none of the Guerrin physical traits. I wondered if Eamon were his real father, but it was a thought I would keep to myself.

The three of us arrived at the palace to learn Eamon's health had taken a bad turn. He was bedridden and not expected to live more than a day. Connor was brought upstairs to see him.

There are no adequate words to describe the touching reunion I witnessed. Connor approached the side of the bed where his father lay. Eamon's eyes were closed, but he roused himself when I called his name.

"I've brought you a visitor," I said, then moved away to let Connor see his father.

Connor's eyes filled with tears. "I remember you," the lad said softly. "Father. It's me, Connor."

Eamon summoned all his strength to sit up, and he embraced his son for the first time in a decade. They were weeping. Cullen and I exited the room to allow them some privacy.

A few days later, when the nobles of Ferelden had gathered in Denerim, Alistair held a memorial for the late Chancellor Eamon Guerrin. It was a grand state affair with full honors, as befitting Eamon's station. Within a month the country had lost two of its most highly respected, most devoted patricians—Teagan and Eamon. The country would go on and eventually forget these men, and they would become footnotes in the history books. They were both heroes, and the loss could not be overstated.

Alistair mourned for Eamon and regretted things he'd said to him, but fortunately it was a short-lived guilt episode. He was grateful, though, that Connor and Eamon were able to see each other one last time before Eamon passed on. It was the best gift we could have given him.

The search for a new chancellor began, and Alistair asked me to fill the position temporarily. I had to decline. Politics was a lot of cajolery to me and I thought it distasteful and dishonest. When I suggested Valendrian would make a better candidate, he answered that the people were too closed-minded and wouldn't accept an elf in the royal court. That being the case, they would be just as reluctant to accept a foreigner like me. I'd rather not put it to the test. He disagreed, but he understood and graciously accepted my refusal (the disappointment in his eye and tone evident).

He said, "I do have a somewhat pressing matter that can't be put off much longer, and I need someone trustworthy to come along with me on a diplomatic trip. Eamon usually traveled with me, but without a chancellor I find myself in a bind. So I appeal to you as a friend: Would you be interested in going to Kirkwall?"

"Kirkwall? Whatever for?"

"I'd like to meet the Champion of Kirkwall," he explained. "I've heard good reports about her—mainly that she and a small party put down the Qunari uprising, and that Hawke battled the Arishok one-on-one and defeated him. Because of that, the people hold her in high regard. An alliance with her could prove useful in the future. Did I mention she's Fereldan? From Lothering."

I'd tuned out at the mention of her name. Hawke. _The_ Hawke that Cullen spoke of, no doubt. Yes indeed, I was interested in going with Alistair to Kirkwall. If Anders was one of her companions, this could be my chance to prove to Cullen (and myself) his fears were unfounded.

"When do we leave?"

He grinned, "So eager to get out of Denerim! It hasn't escaped my notice that you've started wearing your armor and weapons again. I suppose city life _is_ dull in comparison to being a Grey Warden."

"You always were the observant one," I rejoined. "Those stiflingly tight, ugly-colored dresses aren't my style. As for city life…" I trailed off, shrugged, and conveyed my meaning to him more eloquently than by saying it outright: I was bored out of my wits.

There were no other pressing matters on Alistair's schedule, so as soon as his steward could arrange passage for us, we could leave for the Free Marches. The boys would be in the care of their nanny and the palace staff so there were no worries on that account. Other than our misgivings over being away from them for a month or so, we were anxious to get under way.

We didn't have to wait long. A ship was set to depart for Kirkwall in a few days from Highever—a short sail compared to taking ship in Denerim. We planned to leave the palace at dawn and travel straight through to Highever with few rest stops. Once again, the time we spent as wardens proved invaluable. Hardship was a way of life back then. I teased Alistair about having gone soft in the palace with all his servants and boot-lickers, but in truth he hadn't lost a bit of his former discipline. The man was as tough as he'd been in the midst of the blight. I just hoped _I_ hadn't gone soft during my years of pampering in Rainesfere. I made a mental note to make good use of the estate's large armory upon our return. Looking ahead to Jaden's future, I could be of more use to my son as a fighter than as an advisor.

* * *

Part 2 – The Champion of Kirkwall

Kirkwall was in turmoil when we arrived. Knight-Commander Meredith got wind of our arrival and intercepted us before Alistair had a chance to meet with Hawke. The knight-commander was rude, disrespectful to a foreign monarch, and from what I could see, she was too full of self-importance to care about the people of Kirkwall. Hawke and company arrived in time to hear her insult Alistair before she stormed off.

Hawke was a beautiful woman with a humorous-sarcastic personality. Her dark brown hair was caught in a loose, low ponytail, leaving strands free to frame her face. She had blue-green eyes that sparkled with mirth. Anders stood beside her, and it was evident from his body language he was possessive of her. It wasn't unexpected, as Cullen had told me they were involved, but I _was_ surprised to find Sebastian in her party, along with the white-haired elf with the lyrium markings on his skin—what was his name?

_Fenris. That was it. Why would he be helping mages? He made no secret of his hatred of magic and all those who practiced it._

Hawke and Alistair spoke briefly. Evidently Meredith's untimely arrival thwarted his plans for this encounter, and he was left with little to say to her other than to admonish her to use her popularity to help keep order in Kirkwall. His aim was to have her take the post as viscount, but since she was a mage and wouldn't get the backing of the templars, it disqualified her from office. Anders' eyes flickered with disapproval. While she and Alistair were conversing, I took Sebastian aside to speak with him alone.

"What are you doing with these people?" I asked. "Don't you realize Hawke and Anders are apostates, and the last thing on their agenda is a peaceful Kirkwall?"

"It's good to see you, too, Winter," he smiled. "You jump right in with a reprimand. I'm glad to see you've not changed too much over the years."

I started over on a calmer note. "I'm sorry. Hello, Sebastian. I trust you are well."

_Enough pleasantries? There are more important things than manners and customs, my friend._

He answered my earlier demand, "You're right about Anders, but Hawke is a good woman. Besides, I owe Hawke. She went out of her way to help me get justice for our parents' murderers—your parents as well as mine. You should be grateful to her for that."

"As much as that might matter to you, it's simple revenge. My parents aren't 'resting easier'. You know I don't believe in such superstition. I'm aware of Hawke's good deeds, but none of those make up for the fact that she is an apostate, and she's flaunting her freedom from the Circle as much as Anders is. Rumor has it she's protecting and aiding him in his insane quest to free all mages from the chantry and the templars' supervision. How can you support them? Even if those rumors are false, and I hope they are, Champion or not, she's breaking a long-standing _chantry_ law."

Alistair had finished his meeting with Hawke and was waiting for me. And glaring at Sebastian.

"I don't really support her in the mage thing, but… Winter, it's complicated. Hawke's intentions aren't self-serving, unlike Anders' agenda. She sees the abuses and prejudices from a mage's perspective, and she could be the best one to put an end to the fighting between the templars and the mages. Anders, on the other hand, wants to be rid of the templars no matter the cost. My hope is, if I'm around to influence her, she may come to see through his smooth talk and lies. Because I have no doubt he _is_ lying to her even while he claims to love her."

I admonished him, "Be careful, Sebastian. You might be too close to the situation to see what's really going on. It might be better to break with them before you're too deeply involved."

"Involved in what? Do you know something I don't?"

"Nothing definite. But know your friends are being closely watched. One misstep will land them in the Gallows, and I think you're aware Anders will sacrifice his life, and Hawke's as well, to keep from being locked up again."

"I believe he would at that," he frowned. "I _have_ tried to warn Hawke about him but she won't hear of it. She believes herself in love with him, and she trusts every word he says."

"Well, please, just be careful," I repeated before Anders walked up behind me and greeted me.

"If it isn't my old commander, the woman who saved my life from the templars. Good to see you."

"Likewise, Anders." He sounded so genuine I was thrown off guard. _This man was a danger to Kirkwall? Surely Cullen's intel was mistaken._

"I'm so sorry about your husband," he continued. "Is your son well?"

We talked for a couple of minutes, and I could feel Alistair's eyes shooting invisible flaming arrows at Anders like he'd done with Sebastian. In a way, it was amusing to see him being overprotective (or possessive). He knew better than anyone I could handle myself.

Fenris and I exchanged pleasantries—if "pleasantries" applied to him, considering he was a quiet, sullen sort. His body language practically shouted his extreme dislike of Anders and conflicted feelings for Hawke. He admired her, but she was a mage _and_ involved with Anders. The whole affair seemed rather messy, and I suspected "affair" was the proper term. Fenris and Hawke had some kind of history. He'd taken to wearing a red cloth tied about his wrist but I was unfamiliar with the practice. Regardless, it was none of my business, and not what we'd come here for.

Hawke, having finally gotten my attention, said with a smile, "So, Hero of Ferelden, is it?"

"Champion of Kirkwall, is it?" I smiled back. "Titles. So cumbersome, yes? I'm Winter."

"From Starkhaven, like our own Sebastian. Do you two know each other?"

"Yes. He's a longtime friend, very dear to me." My remark brought another icy glare from Alistair, who'd had it with all the testosterone in the room.

He brusquely suggested it was time for us to leave, as he wanted to rest and sightsee before our ship sailed later in the week. When we said our goodbyes to Hawke and her party, we took the long walk through the keep's portico and down the stairs. On the way, Alistair voiced his already too-obvious displeasure.

"That Sebastian fellow you were talking to—isn't he your ex-fiancé, the one I threw out of the Gnawed Noble?"

"Yes. And he's also the one who helped us against the archdemon."

"Well, I don't trust his motives. Or the strange elf with the silver tattoos. Or this Anders, either. Why's he so curious about Jaden? He was _very_ interested in your being a widow and—"

"You're cute when you're jealous," I interrupted.

"You think so? Wait. No. You're trying to change the subject."

"Yes I am. Is it working?"

"Well… yes, sort of."

"Good. Now let's go find the city's finest inn. I'm starved."

"Crafty woman. You're speaking my language," he relented.

After lunch we crossed the harbor to the Gallows to find Cullen. He stood watch at the bottom of the stairs leading the mages' living quarters. From what I could see, Kirkwall's Circle was better organized and more sensibly constructed than the tower in Lake Calenhad.

When he saw us, he dropped to one knee, bowed his head, and crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture of respect for Alistair. It was a sight I hadn't yet gotten used to, and I wondered if I were expected to do the same in the king's presence. If so, he hadn't mentioned it and didn't seem to care if I were "irreverent". Or more likely, he'd come to expect that sort of behavior from me by now.

We talked briefly about our meeting with Hawke and Anders. Cullen scowled at the mention of their names. "Hawke has undoubtedly done a lot of good for Kirkwall, but her association with Anders concerns me greatly. And she's also an apostate. Knight-Commander Meredith tolerates her freedom only because she's the Champion of Kirkwall and is highly respected by the populace. But a time will come—I suspect quite soon—when we'll see where her loyalties lie. My guess is she will side with Anders in whatever he does."

Alistair grimaced at the mention of Meredith's name. "You have to serve under than shrew? You have my pity."

"She is… a bit strict," Cullen stammered, choosing his words carefully. "She's doing what she thinks is best for the city and for the mages. I've yet to find fault with her."

"Give it time," Alistair said. "I think you'll find plenty of fault."

Cullen steered the subject away from his superior. "If you two will be in Kirkwall for a while, I'd recommend you meet with Grand Cleric Elthina. If anyone can bring some peace and order between the two factions—Meredith and the First Enchanter—it would be she. Provided either side will listen to her."

We finished up the meeting, too weary for another visit. Alistair had his hands full with Ferelden. He didn't intend to take on Kirkwall's problems. We decided to let the officials take care of things here, whether it be Hawke and her companions or Meredith or the grand cleric. Alistair's one complaint was that they had taken Cullen without consulting him. That was how the chantry operated, but it galled him all the same.

I said flippantly, but truthfully, "I don't know about you, Your Majesty, but I'm ready for a solid night's sleep. Do you have an idea of what you'd like to see while we're here? I'd like to get it over with before we go. I've had enough of the Free Marches."

"Not homesick at all, are you? For the Marches, I mean. If you're homesick for Ferelden, I rather like the though of it. It _is_ your home, you know."

"I have nothing here," I answered. "My life is there, with Jaden and Duncan." After a pause, I added, "And with you."

"Oh, well, thanks for the afterthought," he said with mock indignation.

"Don't mention it," I smiled.

Recent months, particularly the first six months after Teagan's death, had brought us closer. He was steady as a rock when I needed emotional support, until deep mourning gave way to sorrow, then finally to bittersweet memories I could reflect upon without the aching emptiness inside. He was attentive to Jaden, not trying to replace Teagan but providing a strong father figure (in the guise of "Uncle" Alistair), which I appreciated more than I could express.

As for the future, there was a lot I had to do before I could think of anything beyond friendship with _any_ man. Even one as dear to me, as caring, and as attractive as Alistair.

* * *

Part 3 – Bird in a Gilded Cage

Alistair kept watch over his new little family—Maker, he wished they were _really_ his family!—and was impressed by the maturity with which Jaden accepted his father's death. Most _adults_ would have been devastated, particularly considering how Teagan died, but aside from being quieter than before, Jaden was still… well, Jaden. He was far more advanced emotionally and intellectually than others his age, but those who didn't know about the whole dragon-soul thing thought him a brilliant, well-mannered, contemplative boy.

Winter handled things differently. Her mourning period was brief, but not unduly so. Teagan's death had been a terrible blow, but she rebounded within a few months. Alistair had known her for almost nine years and he had yet to figure her out. Maybe it was in her nature to put the past behind her rather than dwell on things she couldn't change. But when she met a challenge she couldn't overcome by any other means, she had a tendency to resort to action—violent action. Because of this, Alistair was deeply concerned.

Not only had she been wearing her arms and armor again, but she'd also begun to take short trips to Maker-knew-where, not giving any explanation. Jaden was unperturbed, but Alistair didn't think these trips were mini-vacations. She was up to something—releasing her rage on some of Ferelden's criminal element, perhaps, because she always returned from an outing with new blood stains on her armor.

Alistair purposed to follow her one day, as soon as his damned busy schedule would allow. He had to find out where she was going, and if she was putting herself in danger, to try to talk some sense into his hard-headed love.

_Is it wrong to admit to myself that I still love her, that nothing's changed, and I would marry her_ _today if she would consent to it—mourning year be damned? Admitting it to _her_, on the other hand… She would likely be outraged to learn of my selfishness—thinking of my own feelings for her instead of her feelings for Teagan._

She was warming up to him; he was sure of that much. But still she held him at arm's length, which wasn't wholly unexpected considering her recent widowhood. Nonetheless, he'd been pining for her for almost a decade. He wasn't exactly subtle about it, and he lacked the smoothness of amorous men like their old warden companion Aiden Cousland. She _had_ to know how he felt. If she did, she gave no sign of mutual attraction.

"Am I ever going to catch a break with this woman?" he grumbled to himself aloud.

* * *

Part 4 – Old Friends, New Assignments

Life in Denerim was as I'd expected—busy, noisy, dusty, and impersonal. Before long, one could learn to tune out the merchants who called out to passers by from their stalls and the town gossips who huddled near alleyways spreading rumors. In the rare times I visited the market, I was recognized and treated with courtesy, but I had no friends and no close acquaintances.

To be truthful, Alistair was my only companion, though his duties kept him busy more than he liked, as well as the frequent trips around Ferelden. Since he still hadn't found a replacement for Eamon, the business of politics fell to him. When he was in Denerim and the tedious business of the court and nobles was done, he took it for granted Jaden and I would have our evening meals with him and Duncan. He brought a sense of family to my son, and, admittedly, to me, too. I grew accustomed to his presence more than I realized. The palace felt empty when he was away.

On my recommendation, Alistair summoned Fergus Cousland to Denerim to see if he would make a suitable chancellor in Eamon's stead. The king couldn't leave matters in Denerim unattended as much as he did, and he didn't want to travel more than he had to if he had a chancellor to handle most of the disputes and whatnot around the country.

Fergus was a natural leader, and Alistair appointed him to the post in a grand ceremony at the palace. Fergus had remarried, this time to a lovely city elf named Silanni. Their union caused a stir among people who still viewed elves as inferior, but Silanni won over everyone she met with her quiet charm and grace, and her delicate beauty. She and Fergus had three young children, all boys. They took up residence in the palace, to Duncan's utter delight.

Alistair assigned half of the traveling to his chancellor so neither man had to spend too much time away from their families. Alistair was a fair man, mindful of others, and it was a quality he would not lose because of power or position. Duncan saw more of his papa, Fergus' children did not lack, and the atmosphere in the palace improved markedly. The noise level rose considerably as well, but it was the sound of happiness that filled the old stone walls.

Aiden became teyrn of Highever. Fergus joked that his brother and sister-in-law had spawned a small village of Cousland children, and probably needed an arl to see to the other people in the region. Alfstanna's bannorn was adjacent to Highever, so at her people's insistence, she retained her title of Bann of Waking Sea along with her position of teyrna. The woman was unstoppable, I thought. I couldn't handle Redcliffe and Rainesfere with just one child. She had… what was it… eight children? Nine? More? I lost count long ago.

The palace was full, but my home felt emptier by comparison. On a recent evening, I went to my manor alone after dinner—Jaden opted to stay over at the palace with the other boys. The servants walked about on cat's feet, tending to their duties and conversing with each other in subdued tones "so as not to disturb the arlessa," as they still referred to me. Perth was there keeping watch, but we rarely spoke to each other. Loneliness was suffocating me.

"Teagan," I whispered aloud as I readied for bed, "I'm trying, love, but I'm not getting on so well without you." For the first time in months, without knowing quite why, I cried myself to sleep.

* * *

Denerim lacked the scenic beauty of Rainesfere. Though located on the coast, one could only get a glimpse of the sea from the docks—_not_ a pretty sight, and the smell of fish was enough to keep me well away from that sector.

Other than the trip to Kirkwall, the one time I'd had any excitement was when I went to the Circle to bring Connor to see Eamon. Both events were months past, and the lack of activity brought on a sense of apathy toward most everything. I had to do _something_ soon, because I felt useless. Being the mother of a seven-year-old boy (who behaved like a lad twice his age), I couldn't very well return to the wardens. Ferelden was clear of darkspawn but there were stories of a recently discovered, ancient thaig outside Kirkwall, and from what I heard, Grey Wardens were investigating it. I hadn't had the opportunity to confirm it on our short visit to Kirkwall, but I admit I was curious.

_Not that I can pick up and leave at a moment's notice. I have to consider Jaden. And if that Hawke woman isn't what she appears to be, _and_ if Cullen was right about her and Anders being a danger to the city, Kirkwall might not be a safe place for him at this time._

Since our return from Kirkwall I practiced daily in the manor's armory, honing my skills to their former proficiency. It gave me a sense of satisfaction to recapture my old speed and technique, but beyond that activity, I had nothing to do with my time. Tired of looking at the walls in the manor, I took a daily stroll around the market. Jaden was at the palace taking his lessons with the other boys. The sense of isolation was hard to deal with, but keeping it in was better than inflicting my unhappiness on my child.

One day, walking aimlessly through the city, I spied a small, two-person carriage pulling up in front of the Kendalls estate. The first person to exit it had a familiar face. At first I didn't recall who she was. She was about fifty years, dark hair shot through with streaks of white, elegantly dressed. Then it hit me. She was Adele Kendalls, Teagan's former mistress.

"Do come on, Zevran darling. My guests have arrived ahead of me and it's rude to keep them waiting," she said with an undertone of imperiousness.

_Zevran? It can't be…_

It was. He stepped out of the carriage, dressed impeccably and looking quite handsome in his nobleman's attire. He caught sight of me and communicated with a glance from his golden eyes. _Don't let on that you know me._

He answered her, "I'm right behind you, dearest. But you know how these parties bore me. I'll meet your friends and rub elbows, but in return, you must let me escape the pomposity in a couple of hours. I'm more comfortable mingling with the commoners at the Gnawed Noble."

Zev's message to me was clear: _Meet me at the Gnawed Noble in two hours._

Adele made a face. "Ugh! What a horrid dump! But very well, if you must," she relented, latching on to his arm to lead him to the manor. "Your choice of friends is appalling." Her tone took on a teasing quality, "Fortunately, you have other traits…" Her voice trailed off as they entered the manor. I didn't care to hear more. I'd heard enough about his "traits", thank you.

Zev was right on time. He joined me at my table, and in a gesture of compassion unlike him, he took both of my hands in his and extended his sympathy for the loss of my husband. "A dragon," he mused. "There was a large nest or two of dragon eggs in the ruined temple near Haven, yes? Maybe one should look into it and see if any remain. And smash them before they hatch."

"I've considered it. Going alone isn't wise, but I can't ask Aiden to leave his family and risk his life for it, nor can I call upon the wardens in Amaranthine."

"A favor for a favor, if you will?"

"A question first," I countered. "Have you been tailing me? How did you know so much about me and where to find me?"

"Well, about 'tailing' you as you say, the answer is yes and no. I have been keeping an eye on you from a distance, through my associates. Not for any reason other than to learn of your well-being and to assure myself that you were safe and staying out of trouble. I haven't forgotten how you not only spared my life, but honored your vow, letting me go free when my debt was paid. But I did not expect to see you in the market this evening. That, like meeting you in the first place, was pure luck."

"You do have a lucky streak," I agreed. "About your favor, then… I'm listening," I said.

He had cleaned house when he took over the Crows, but one assassin remained at large. It was a man named Ignacio, and he was one of the most experienced, influential members of the old order. Zev was tracking a rumor that Ignacio planned to set up shop in Denerim, running his own operation from the market district under the cover of being an ordinary merchant.

I was interested and ready for some excitement. "What do you want me to do?"

"When he comes, he'll want to meet you. You escaped the Crows and he has evaded me for years. He is a slippery eel and he knows my face, so I cannot approach him openly. You, on the other hand—your name is well known, as is your reputation for being a ruthless, efficient fighter. He will want to recruit you."

"You want me to become an assassin? Don't think for a minute I'm going to sleep with any of my marks. It's not going to happen. Ever."

He smiled at my protests, recalling the times he'd tried, unsuccessfully, to bed me. "Ignacio rarely deals with political killings, and even so, sleeping with a mark is a personal choice. I choose to take pleasure before and during the kill. You, as I recall, prefer a straight battle. So no worries, my friend. Make a clean kill and you will gain his trust."

"And in return for this favor and these jobs, what will I get?"

"I will go with you to the dragon's nest. We will clear out all the hatchlings and smash the eggs. I hope we do not run into any drakes, but my new poison ought to paralyze them if not kill them instantly. What do you say? Do we have a bargain?"

I thought it over. If I took him up on his offer, I'd have to operate under cover—not only from my targets, obviously, but more so from Alistair and Jaden. They couldn't know I was killing for hire. Whatever the cost, I _had_ to destroy as many dragonlings and dragon eggs as possible. If there were to be a dragon war, I'd be helping my son. "I'll do it," I agreed. "Tell me what he looks like and how to approach him."

"He's an ugly man with a receding hairline and the face of a horse," Zev answered.

"Should be easy enough to pick out of a crowd," I quipped. "Ugly, receding hairline, horse face. You just described half the men in Ferelden."

"He'll have a pronounced Antivan accent," he added. "And he'll have a partner. Likely Antivan as well, but he could be of any nationality. Ignacio will have recruited a lackey to act as a business manager while he takes contracts."

"I'll start looking for him tomorrow," I said. "Without it looking like I'm looking for him."

"Thank you, dear friend. I can always count on you," he said, in one of his rare sappy moments. It didn't last long. "Now I must get back to the party before Adele send out her servants to track me down. She is a possessive one. If I did not need her for cover, and if it were not for her talents in the bedroom—"

"Stop!" I said, holding up a hand. "I don't want to hear another word about her or her 'talents'."

"Oh, of course, my apologies. She mentioned your husband was a former lover of hers, and the way she speaks of him almost makes me doubt my own prowess. They did not carry on during your marriage, I trust? Or if they were discreet…"

"No. My husband was completely loyal and faithful to me," I said icily.

"So say they all," he sighed, then rose to go. "Once Ignacio shows, I will be watching to make sure the contracts are not too involved for a single assassin. If you need help, I will be there."

He took his leave. I sat a while longer, ordered another ale, and downed it to ease the sting of Zev's implication that Teagan had been unfaithful; and worse, his crude reference to Adele's reminiscing about their affair. I didn't believe for a second that Teagan had been untrue, but hearing my late husband spoken of with disrespect angered me. And truthfully, it provoked my jealousy. I didn't want to know Adele's opinion of Teagan's lovemaking. I didn't want to think of him loving her the way he loved me. The more I tried _not_ to think on it, the more I thought on it.

Another ale or three later, I reflected on Isolde and her strange clinginess. She'd acted as if she were married to one brother and carrying on with the other. It wasn't something I would put past _her_, but Teagan was an honorable man. He wouldn't sleep with his own brother's wife, of all people. The rumors that Connor looked more like him than Eamon were idle blather. Connor as a boy had chestnut hair, a color similar to Teagan's, but as a young man, Connor didn't look like a Guerrin in any respect. Still… it _was_ possible…

"Sod it all," I muttered, rising unsteadily to my feet. I'd had enough of the noisy tavern and _more_ than enough of my thoughts. I could escape the tavern. The thoughts went with me, and as I walked around the empty marketplace to clear my head, the thoughts turned into hurtful visual images. Teagan with Adele, enjoying her "talents" more than my inexperienced fumblings. Teagan with Isolde, hiding their lust from Eamon who trusted them both implicitly. Eamon had been wrong about Isolde. Was his faith in Teagan misplaced as well? Was mine?

_Stop it! Teagan and Adele were through before he and I became involved, and it was _his_ choice. He didn't sleep with Isolde and he surely isn't Connor's father. Do Jaden and Connor resemble each other? Not in the least. Connor looked a bit like Isolde, but not like Eamon. Jaden has many of his father's characteristics, particularly his mouth and eyes—except for the startlingly bright blue color. Chances are Eamon isn't Connor's father, but Teagan definitely isn't either. It was probably some low-ranking guard or a villager. Or maybe Lloyd, the coarse, barrel-bellied tavern owner._

The last visual gave me a good chuckle, which I needed. Troubling thoughts banished for now, I rounded the corner behind Wade's old shop, passed down the street toward the chantry, and when I reached the narrow alley between Wade's and Goldanna's house, three bandits were waiting for a victim. Across the street, in the alley beside the chantry wall, were two more.

_I've come full circle. I started my first day in Ferelden fending off five bandits. Here we go again._

One of them addressed me in a mocking tone, "That's a nice fat coin purse you're wearing, sweetheart. Looks awfully heavy for a little thing like you to be carrying about. What's a pretty girl like you doing out late at night? Don't you know the streets aren't safe?"

While he spoke, his men gathered around me. As there were no guards around, I suspected they'd already killed or incapacitated them. I responded to him with wide-eyed innocence, "My coin purse is lighter from all those ales I had at the Gnawed Noble. I can hardly walk. Maybe you kind gentlemen would like to escort me home and I'll pay you for your service?"

"Now tell me, lass, why should we work for the coin when we can just take it from you?"

I dropped the harmless damsel in distress act and slurred, "Well ser, I invite you to try."

One of his fellows said, "She's drunk. It'll be the easiest job we've pulled in months."

Another said, "She's got two longswords."

The leader said, "Look at her. She couldn't swing one, much less both. Nice set of blades. Let's relieve her of those _and_ her coin. And if she puts up a fuss, she'll lose her life too."

I had a few seconds of doubt—I hadn't been in a real fight in years. How many ales did I have? Five? Six? More than that? I _was_ drunk, and I wasn't accustomed to drinking so much. I hoped those ales didn't come back up in the midst of this action.

_Doubt can be deadly. I can do this._

I pulled my blades and twirled them with the same dexterity I'd had in the past. "Who wants to be first to try their luck?"

The leader snorted. "Carnival tricks. Any idiot can do that."

"As an idiot, you certainly qualify," I said. "Let's see you try."

"Sod it," he snarled, refusing my challenge. "It's five on one, boys. Get her!"

They rushed me all at once. I employed the whirlwind technique, wounding each of them enough to give them pause, but not badly enough to make them give up. They cursed me and renewed their threats to kill me. Since my life was in danger, I had no recourse but to kill them. I ran the nearest one through the chest with one sword and decapitated him with the other. Instead of his companions running in terror, it enraged them to see their friend cut down, by a _woman_, no less. A very drunk woman.

"Four on one now," I taunted. "Shall I even the odds a bit more?"

This time my arrogance worked against me. One of the bandits caught me off guard and slashed at me, his dagger cutting through my armor and making a deep, painful gash in my side. He was the next to die. The pain infuriated me. I swung one blade in an oblique downward stroke, the sword biting through his neck and shoulder and all the major blood vessels. He staggered off with his hand over the wound, ineffectively trying to stem the gush of blood. He made it about four steps before he collapsed and bled out.

Still three left, and all of us were wounded. I could feel the hot blood pouring down my hip and leg. Not yet weakened, but it wouldn't be long before I needed healing. I had to finish this fight quickly before I received another injury. The best way to do it was to separate the fighters from each other, not allowing them to crowd me.

I selected the leader. His death might dishearten the other two. Undaunted by his friends' deaths, he charged at me with his axe raised. Before he reached me, he stopped, eyes huge, mouth agape, and he fell at my feet with a dagger in his back.

"How did she do that?" one of the survivors asked the other.

"With the help of a friend," Zev answered. I was never so glad to see him as I was then. He quickly dispatched the last bandits and came to help me. I was bleeding badly and faintness was setting in. He helped me to a crate and had me rest. "Sit here. I have to cover my tracks." He took one of my swords, removed his daggers from the three bandits he'd killed, and ran my blade through them to cover the dagger's path, making it look like I'd killed them all myself.

"Trying to save my reputation?" I joked weakly.

"Trying to save my cover," he answered. "These men were not bandits. They were Ignacio's men. They were here to test you to see if you were worth recruiting. He will definitely seek you out after this."

"Your skills have improved," I commented.

"And yours, my dear friend, are more efficient when you're sober. I recommend you forgo the ale when you meet with him, yes? When his men do not return to report, he will know you killed them. That is what he hoped you would do. Since he knows you are as lethal as ever, he will likely be here within a week or so."

His words stung (again), but he was right. I'd let emotion rule my thoughts and because of it, I drank too much—something wholly out of character for me—and put myself in danger. He helped apply an injury kit to my wound and gave me a healing potion that cleared my head of the alcohol. After he helped me to my feet, he said he had to go before he was missed. Apparently Adele kept her lovers on a short leash.

"We will not meet again until after you have been contacted by Ignacio," he said. "But I will be with you to help with the contracts if needed. _And_ I will be around to keep you out of trouble."

"This really is a switch," I said. "I thought I was the one who kept _you_ out of trouble."

"I learned from the best," he said, soothing my wounded ego with his flattery. "Now go home and let those potions do their work."

Each morning and afternoon I took a walk around the marketplace looking for a new face. Every evening, I changed into one of those ridiculously skin-tight noblewoman's dresses and joined Alistair and the boys for dinner. The king of Ferelden had settled into his role well, and he was a handsome sight in his royal attire. Not that he wasn't equally handsome in cheap chainmail or in his royal armor, mind you. When our little flock gathered for meals, Alistair was relaxed and fun, making his typically lame jokes that were often so bad they were funny. He reminded me of the young Grey Warden I'd met years ago at Ostagar, and the memory brought on a fresh rush of melancholy.

_What would have become of our relationship if not for Morrigan's scheming, and if not for Teagan's timely intervention? Would he and I—_

_Wondering about it won't change a thing. What does it matter now?_

"You look distraught, my dear," Alistair said, bringing me out of my reverie. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

Duncan turned his wide, innocent eyes on me. "Are you still broken, Aunt Winter?"

"Broken?" I echoed, confused.

"I heard people say you're broken. Where are you broken? Can I see it?"

"_Heart_broken," Jaden supplied. "They say she's heartbroken because my dad died."

Duncan opened his mouth to continue the topic but Alistair interrupted him. "Aunt Winter will be fine. We have to give her time and not ask a lot of nosy questions." He said it with a fatherly smile, but his tone implied there would be no more discussion of it.

They were right—I _was_ still reeling from my loss—and they were wrong. Too much idle time allowed for too many pointless musings. Memories of Teagan filled my dreams, but Alistair's kindness and understanding helped ease my pain. He was a dear, compassionate soul, and our friendship deepened in recent months. His kindness extended to everyone he met. Small wonder he was the most popular, beloved ruler in Ferelden's history.

On the ninth day after the bandits or assassins attacked me, I saw a man who fit the description Zev gave me. Ugly, receding hairline, horse face and all. He wasn't _ugly_, to be honest. More like ordinary—one who wouldn't stand out in a crowd, which was what he wanted. Blending in was essential to killers and cutpurses.

Rather than approaching him right off, I waited a couple of days, got in enough practice until I was confident I could meet any challenge he threw at me, and then headed out to the market to meet the renegade Crow. He pretended to be a merchant and businessman, though he was vague about what "business" he was supposedly running. I didn't press him for details. After our chat, I browsed his merchandise (which was cheap junk compared to my weapons and armor), and bid him good day.

The following morning a messenger arrived at my door with a note from Ignacio. He wanted to meet me at the Gnawed Noble in a private suite. I went alone, but he had two henchmen with him just in case I arrived with the aim to attack him. _Coward_, I thought. He did indeed want to recruit me, and I agreed to his terms although the pay for kills was pitifully inadequate. I had no need of money, but I marveled that the price of a human life was so low.

The first couple of contracts were easy kills, in or near Denerim, and the targets were dangerous men who'd managed to elude the guards. It was apparent these jobs were tests, and I carried them out without a qualm. I didn't need Zev's help for these simple jobs, but he shadowed me to make sure everything went perfectly.

When my 'apprenticeship' was done and my loyalty proven, I received Ignacio's true assignment. It was a political contract that involved traveling to Orzammar to kill a foreign ambassador, currently staying in the royal palace with a company of bodyguards. My friend King Harrowmont would grant me access to his palace, but he wouldn't take too kindly to me killing one of his guests. Discretion and stealth were paramount if I were to avoid losing an ally.

* * *

"Orzammar? What possible business could you have in Orzammar?" Alistair didn't intend to sound as harsh as he did, but Winter's increasingly erratic behavior worried him, and fear wasn't something he handled well. It had been his hope that, with as much attention as he could give her, she would come to terms with her grief and return to a normal life. After she'd overcome her initial restlessness, everything seemed to be going well enough. Then suddenly she started taking those secretive trips and, again, returning with fresh blood on her armor. Normalcy seemed to be the furthest thing from her plans.

"It's… a personal errand," she said evasively. "I'll be gone for a couple of weeks. Is it such a bother to have Jaden here? If so, I can—"

"No, Winter, this has nothing to do with Jaden. Well, nothing other than the fact that he's eight years old and needs his mother, but she's too busy running mysterious 'personal errands' to pay him the attention he requires."

"You've not noticed he depends on me less and less, that he's intellectually equal to an adult and emotionally advanced as well? Are you forgetting his unique personality?"

He was quiet a moment before he replied, "Sometimes, yes, I forget he's not just an average little boy like Duncan. But regardless of his 'uniqueness' I feel he needs more of your time than you've been giving him. Forgive me if I'm overstepping my bounds…" He trailed off, not feeling he was overstepping at all. Not when it came to the woman he loved and the boy he'd grown to care for as his own.

"I can't really speak of what I'm doing, but I need you to trust me. I'm tying up loose ends, nothing more. And I'm almost done. Please be patient with me a while longer. That's all I ask."

He groaned in frustration, knowing she would always have the upper hand over him. "I do trust you," he answered. "But I worry about you too. I'm afraid you're becoming reckless like you were when we first met. Maker forbid you get into trouble and I'm not there to help. I'd never forgive myself if I lost you again due to—"

_Well, that was certainly smooth, Alistair. Tell the grieving widow your feelings like a selfish bastard, why don't you? Might as well finish your sentence. She's waiting for you to stick your other foot in your big mouth._

"…due to carelessness, thoughtlessness..." he finished quietly. "I'm sorry. What a stupid thing for me to say."

"Alistair," she said, "it wasn't stupid. Do you think I would be offended to learn you care about me? On the contrary; I'm flattered." They'd been sitting in his study; now she rose from her seat and leaned to him, kissing him on the cheek. "Thank you," she whispered, "for everything."

"Why does that sound so much like 'goodbye'?" he remarked dolefully.

"There will never be a 'goodbye' between us," she answered. "We've been through too much together and we'll always be bound by the taint."

"Not exactly the warm sentiment I was hoping for."

"Don't look so downcast. For what it's worth, you're precious to me," she said, surprising him with the word 'precious'. Before he could say something idiotic, she quickly added, "I have to go now. We'll speak more when I return."

He watched her retreating, her dark ponytail swinging and revealing the creamy skin of her neck, her stride purposeful, yet still feminine. The light, fitted drakeskin armor clung to her slender body, and as he gazed at her, he saw the raw recruit again… the one who captured his heart and wouldn't release it.


End file.
